Moonshine Blind
by 50ftQueenie
Summary: It's the touch of PTSD that gets them running for the door. Women love a man with a battle scar unless it's the kind that has cut him across his soul and occasionally causes him to wake up hyperventilating in a cold sweat. Totally not slash.
1. Chapter 1

I do not own "Justified", it's characters, or the State of Kentucky.

a/n: I started another "Justified" story once and quit it because I figured out how it ended and got bored. I tend to write by the seat of my pants. That said, I am always open to con-crit and commentary. I'll try harder to not prematurely resolve my plotline this time.

**Moonshine Blind- One**

_Raylan Givens is certain he is dead. Under no other circumstances can he imagine so clearly being able to recall the process by which methanol dehydrogenates and becomes Formaldehyde._

_It was his "Gold Star" moment in his college Chemistry class some twenty years ago. The roomful of suburban Louisville kids had stared blankly when the professor asked for someone to describe a how an alcohol such as ethanol or methanol would dehydrogenate and what the outcome might be. Raylan Givens, Harlan County boy, knew the answer._

_Not because he had done his reading or joined a study group as recommended by the professor, mind you. Raylan knew because he'd heard the stories. Hell, methanol dehydrogenization is the stuff legends are made of in Harlan County. If one is to, say, distill grain alcohol at too high a temperature- and if one's distillery doesn't explode during the process- the grain alcohol becomes methanol. If one, then, unknowingly ingests this product enzymes in the liver dehydrogenate the methanol and it becomes Formaldehyde. The result of this ingestion is ocular toxicity leading to blindness._

_An 'A' for the day for Raylan Givens._

_The memory of how good and cocky he felt drawling out that answer from the back of the Chem Lab comes flooding over him along with the darkness. He didn't know it could happen so fast. All his life, he's heard stories of moonshine blindness, but he didn't know that all it would take was one drink from the jar Boyd handed to him._

_Raylan is sure he is dead. He wonders if Boyd is dead, too- if he drank the same shit, or if he knowingly delivered Raylan poison. Whatever the case, Raylan knows only that he has hit the floor and now- in spite of being able to recall how his drink got be of such caliber- he can't move to pull his weapon and he can't see to shoot at Boyd._

_If he's not dead already, death is no doubt creeping up upon him while he lays defenseless in the dark._

* * *

><p>It's not that Tim Gutterson is no good with women. It's more like Tim is terrible with women. He's cute enough and tall enough. He has tattoos and a nice truck. Those things alone might be enough to cancel out his boyish love of guns and tendency to fall back on talking about guns when he doesn't know what else to talk about.<p>

It's the touch of PTSD that always gets them, or- rather- gets them running for the door. Women love a man with a battle scar unless it's the kind that has cut him across his soul and occasionally causes him to wake up hyperventilating in a cold sweat. That does not sit well with the ladies.

So the fact that he found a woman, charmed her, drove back to her place without putting the truck in the ditch, got her clothes off, his clothes off, got her off, and got the hell out of there before the first fingers of daylight stretched across the Lexington sky has him feeling like a man of steel on this fine morning. Tim is borderline-jubilant when he steps off the elevator to the fourth floor- coffee for the house in hand, even though it isn't his day- and oblivious to the fact that the proverbial ship is sinking around him.

"Good morning," he says as he comes through the door. Rachel has no "good morning" for him. She raises her index finger to silence him and goes back to writing down whatever message she's taking on her phone. Raylan is not at his desk to say "good morning" to. Tim sets the coffee down there and sets his sights on Art, but he is in his office- also on the phone- and his door is shut.

Tim takes a cup of coffee for himself and stops to look around.

"Good morning." Finally, someone steps up to the plate for a helping of his damned good mood.

Tim turns to face the voice. It's her. She's not dressed like she was last night when he met her tending bar in the student ghetto. She's not underdressed like she was later on last night either. Her look is toned down and her heels aren't as high, but it's the same red-headed girl with the sleepy brown eyes.

"What are you doing here?" She asks him. Her eyes shift around the room as though she doesn't want anyone else to see them talking.

Tim looks her over while she is looking away. _No visible bruises._ _What is she doing here?_ A panic starts to well up in his stomach. Everything last night was consensual, right? He'd had a lot to drink, but she was tending bar until almost one. She was near to sober. _What is she doing here?_

"I work here. What are you doing here?"

"Oh, Jesus," she says. Before she can elaborate on that, Art comes out of his office.

"Tim, we got a problem."

_Oh, Jesus_, he thinks.

"Raylan's fallen off the map. He's not answering calls and his car's been abandoned in Harlan. We're calling around, but seeing as he went down there looking for Boyd Crowder, we're a little concerned. Have you and Miss McKittrick met?"

"Yeah," Tim says.

"No," she says.

Art frowns at them both. "Well, take a minute to get that settled, and then I need to see you and Rachel in my office."

Art picks up his coffee, waves to get Rachel's attention, and then returns to his desk.

Tim turns his attention back to the redhead.

"Wow, we're smooth," she says. "I told you my name was Randi, right?"

"Yeah, and I'm Tim."

"I know. I'm Randi, Renata by day. I'm interning from UK. I'm a doctoral student in experimental psych."

"I thought you were a bartender."

She rolls her eyes. "I was. That was my last night. Didn't you get the feeling I was celebrating?"

"So you're not here to…"

"Nail you to the wall for sneaking out on me? No. I'm here to work. Actually, last night is probably something we should pretend never happened."

Tim nods, only agreeable on the outside. Inside, his mood is deflating fast. Last night, he had them both convinced he was a god among men. In the bright light of day, he's the dope who brings the coffee and takes orders from Art, and his good-time redhead is just shy of a doctorate in reading his mind.

"Never happened," he replies. He picks up the cup of coffee he had brought for Raylan and holds it out to her.


	2. Chapter 2

I do not own Justified or its world.

**Moonshine Blind- Two**

"You think you're a scientist now?"

"Huh?"

"Poking 'em with a stick. Like a marine biologist or something."

"The fuck do you know about marine biologists? You never seen no ocean."

"I seen it on the Discovery Channel, and I seen some marine biologist poking a whale with a stick what washed up on the beach. Seeing if it was alive or something."

"Yeah, that's what scientists do, asshole. If I wanted to know if he was alive, I'd have kicked him."

Before he gets himself kicked, Raylan stretches as much as much as his confinement will allow. He still can't see. He's bound at the ankles and wrists. He can feel the cold metal pattern of low hills and valleys that make up the floor of a van.

"I'll be damned," one of the voices says. "That one's alive. Go on and poke at the other one, Einstein. He's just a little guy. It might've hit him harder."

_Boyd_, Raylan thinks. _So they doped Boyd, too_. He's almost disappointed. At least if it was Boyd who was behind this, he'd know what he was dealing with: something sinister masked by something philosophical and- with the exception of Boyd himself- carried to fruition by idiots. The two scientists with the stick certainly qualify as idiots, but Raylan doesn't have a clue who they're working for or what kind of bastardized political or religious stand is motivating them.

"Hey," Raylan says. It comes out in a whisper. His throat burns.

"Hey is for horses, piggy," one of the voices tells and lets him have it hard across the thigh, presumably with the stick he had been using for poking. The feeling calls to mind the beatings Raylan used to take from Arlo as a child, the ones where the old man would send him out back to cut his own switch first. Raylan had tried to turn it in to a science experiment of his own: did it matter if the switch was thicker or more narrow? Which width hurt less? He never came to any conclusion. It hurt either way.

Raylan tries again, mustering all the saracasm he can, "Pardon me…"

"What?"

"Well, I don't know your name. How do you want me to address you?"

"Nice try, piggy," the voice says.

"I'm not a cop," Raylan tells him. "I'm a U.S Marshall."

"I know what you is, and I know _who_ you is."

"Then you should know that you've just jumped the fence from a promising career in marine biology to a federal felony."

There is a pause. The voice ponders this.

The other one says, "Don't listen to him, Roland. It's federal whomever you kidnap. Don't make any difference that he's a Marshall. It's federal for kidnapping Boyd, too."

"Well, shit," Roland says. Raylan's mind races- does he know any Rolands in Harlan? A couple, he guesses. One's down in Riverbend in Nashville. Won't be seeing him again till he runs out of appeals and is delivered home in a box. The other Roland is Roland Grey. Roland Grey is a distant cousin of Arlo's. He's a distant cousin to Boyd, for that matter. It doesn't take too long before the roots of the family trees in Harlan begin to mingle and intertwine beneath the ground.

"Roland Gray?" Raylan asks.

Silence. He hears footsteps on gravel. The two men back away from the van, but he can still make out that Roland Grey is chastising his partner for saying his name. Raylan figures he's hit it on the mark then.

The chastising is interrupted when one or the other's cell phone goes off. The ring tone is that new Gnarls Barkley song. Raylan's heard it maybe twice. Both times, he changed the station half-way through.

Roland answers the phone. "Yeah?...Yeah, they're here. The Marshall's woke up. Want us to knock him out again?...I don't know. No, ma'am, Crowder's still out. I think he's breathing though. We ain't poked at him yet."

He ends the call.

"She says to bring 'em on up," he tells his partner. "Says to worry about Crowder when we get there. She says he's…shit, what'd she call him…correlational…correctional?"

"Collateral?" Raylan offers.

"Yeah, that's it. She said Crowder was collateral damage. She's just pissed at him for something. Said it was a bonus if we got him, but it's the Marshall she really needs."

"Maybe we oughtn't be talking about it in front of him," the other one says.

"Who the fuck cares? Who's he going to tell- Boyd? Ain't going to make a damn difference for either one soon as we get them up the hill."

Agreed. They slam the van doors shut. Raylan can hear their footfalls on the gravel as they walk around to the front of the van. When they fire it up, the radio comes on blaring. It's Trisha Yearwood. In his head, Raylan pictures his captor- the mysterious "she" Roland and friend spoke of- as Trisha Yearwood. She's tall and bottle-blonde.

He figures he must still be under the influence of whatever was in that whiskey back at the bar. As the van gets rolling, he finds himself humming "She's In Love With the Boy" as the bumps in the road lull him unconscious once again.

* * *

><p>Something is off.<p>

It's more than just the "off" of knowing Raylan is missing. Art Mullen can sense something else is askew in the office- an elevated level of that day-to-day "Is this a Marshall's office or a middle school dance" kind of off. Some days, Art could swear he's playing guidance counselor to this bunch and their inability to stay out of the wrong person's pants.

Raylan is the worst of all of them.

Rachel is the only one with any sense.

With Raylan missing, he can only figure it's Tim who's putting off the vibe.

_Christ_, Art thinks. _And what am I supposed to do with him? That boy's packed tighter than a bong load of the Blue Ridge Mountain's finest. You could spend all day long with a gun to that kid's temple asking him what's up and he'd tell you nothing. _

"Nuthin'. Let's go shoot something" is Tim Gutterson's mantra.

Art looks over the files he has spread across the conference room table and then he looks up at the intern. She's a psychologist- or almost one- maybe she could get somewhere with Tim_. That's an idea_, he figures_, I'll pair them up and give her a head's up that he's been acting weird. Weirder. Just slightly more South Mall Clock Tower than usual_.

"So, these are the fellows we've been looking at," Art says to Randi, pointing at a pair of black and white surveillance photos. "One of the left is Boyd Crowder. He's endless hours of fun. More on him in the file. Next to him is his cousin Johnny. He's standing in this one. Got himself shot about a year ago and he's in a wheelchair now. They say what doesn't kill you makes you stronger. Looks like Johnny's back in the game for sure. The other ones…"

Randi leans in to look closer. Something stops her. She leans in ever closer and then takes a step back.

"I'll be damned," she says. "Is that Danny England?"

She taps on one of the faces- the skinhead just to Johnny's left.

"That there is a Boy Scout named Daniel Ellis. Goes by Devil."

Randi shakes her head. She smirks at the moniker "Devil" and then gets serious again.

"No. It must be an alias. His name's Danny England. He was a buddy of my brother's, a year behind me in high school back in Fayetteville."

Art nods.

"File does say he's from Fayetteville." He looks thoughtful. "You think he'd still recognize you?"

"He'd better. I recognized him."

"What kind of relationship did you have with him? A good one?"

She laughs, her face awash with nostalgia. "Yeah, I guess. We went to homecoming once. I guess it was kind of a mercy date."

"Who was having mercy on whom?" Art grins at her.

Randi shrugs, still smiling. She looks past Art and through the glass only to find she's looking at Tim at his desk. She looks back at the wall.

"I think we traded that role back and forth. Went out a couple of times. I'd have a crush on him and he wouldn't give a rat's ass about me, then vice versa a week later." She sighs and brings herself back. "What happened?"

"I take it you didn't keep in touch?"

She shakes her head. "No. He was my brother's friend, really, and my brother was killed in a car accident right after graduation. He sure knew how to throw 'em back. Didn't' know how to stay out from behind a steering wheel once he had though. I was a freshman at Little Rock. I came for the funeral and then never went back."

Art shuffles through the papers. He replaces the photographs and closes Boyd's ever-growing file. He lays Devil's on top of it, opens it, and scans for details. Randi can read it for herself, and he'll let her eventually, but he'd like to flush a few more details out of her first.

"You're friend Danny looks like he became kind of a traveling man," Art tells her. "Somewhere between a turn in the Georgia State Pen and taking up residence in Harlan County, he started going by Ellis. Met the Aryan Nation guys in the pen doing time for distribution and possessing more guns and ammo than most sane people like to have around the house. Went in Daniel England and came out Devil Ellis. We're fuzzy on how he met the Crowders, but he and Boyd have about been attached at the hip ever since. They're kind of cute together."

"Except for the skinhead part."

"Well, you know," Art says and winks at her. Time to see if the girl is able to detach- can she look at her old high school one-again-off-again and make an assessment based on what he is now. "So, how does skinhead reconcile in your head?"

Randi frowns. She takes a step back from the table and folds her arms across her chest. She thinks for a minute and then tells Art, "I hate to think it, but I guess it makes sense. He used to take a lot of shit- from his old man, kids at school. I supposed you could say he was bullied. My brother was his best friend, and he wasn't even that good a friend to him. Always bossing him around, and Danny was always a follower. You know, it wouldn't surprise me a bit if he took someone's rap when he got sent- either because he was told to or because he wanted to create a rep for himself."

"Sometimes those are the most dangerous ones."

She nods. She looks up at the wall again, and then takes another look at the photo.

"Damn, look at those eyes," she says. "He's tweaking, isn't he?"

"You'd about have to be to put up with Boyd's shit as long as Devil has."

"Can't wait to meet Boyd."

"How do you feel about reuniting with Danny?"

"As a therapist or a profiler?"

Art grins. "Therapy is another department. We just catch 'em. Some other poor son of a bitch has to talk to 'em. If this fella's the puppy-dog type you say he is, maybe we can tempt him into puppy-dogging after you and get a little information out of him. We'll keep a good eye on you. You'll never be alone with him. You'll be with Tim."

And there's that feeling again- a disturbance in the force. Art can sense that something is up. The girl just blinks at him when he looks at her funny. She was born to be a shrink, this one. She's got the poker face alright. Oh hell, put her in a car with Tim then. One of them's just as zany as the other. They ought to get along just swimmingly.


	3. Chapter 3

I do not own "Justified".

**Moonshine Blind- Three**

This is not what Devil Ellis signed up for.

What he signed up for was blowing shit up, dealing a little dope, sampling his own wears and getting tattoos that would scare the living bejesus out of even the reddest of the rednecks in this bass-ackwards little town of Boyd Crowder's.

What he got was eggs.

Eggs any damned way he wants them. Every morning- with toast, sometimes French toast, or pancakes. Some times with blueberries in them. What Devil got was a life sentence of imprisonment inside a house with a breakfast menu so diverse it rivals that of any IHOP.

"Devil, you want eggs?"

He shudders. He shudders every single morning Ava Crowder shouts those words from the kitchen. Every time he hears her say them, he can feel himself getting a little less cool and a little more fat. He can't stand it, and he can't stand that woman.

If Devil was a man given to sadness, the present state of Boyd Crowder's Commandos would make him very, very sad. Melancholy manifests itself as pissed off in Devil, and so every morning he greets Ava and her bountiful breakfast table with a sneer from over the rim of his cup of perfectly brewed coffee.

The woman is evil, he's decided. She's like one of those women in that story with the Greeks and the boat that he had to read about in high school. It's been a long time, but he remembers that story- even if he can't remember what the women were called. They lulled the sailors away from the sea with their songs and held them captive so they couldn't go home, so they were no longer useful. That's what Ava's doing to Boyd except she's doing it with eggs. And pancakes, sometimes with blueberries in them.

"Devil?" She shouts out again.

It just sounds wrong: Devil, do you want eggs? His nickname is supposed to sound tough and menacing (never mind that it's shortened from "Handsome Devil", which is what his Granny used to call him). Who asks the Devil if he wants eggs every damned morning? She should be cowering and he should be demanding eggs. She always beats him to it, though.

"Yeah," he calls back. "Please."

"How do you want 'em?"

"I don't know. How does Arlo want 'em?"

He lives in hope that Arlo will ask for something weird, something Helen used to make for him that Ava can't hope to recreate. Then she will have failed and Devil will be happy.

"Arlo ain't here. He went out already."

"Sweet Jesus," Devil mutters. "Sunnyside then."

Then he can mop 'em up with toast.

"I already got some scrambled," she calls back.

Then why are you asking me? "That'll be fine."

He sits up on the couch that has become his bed. The couch has pretty flowers on it. He's been sleeping under a quilt that Helen Givens made. The only thing left over from the days of sleeping on a hard pew in Boyd's converted church is the shotgun laid on the floor next to him. He rubs his eyes and looks down at it longingly.

He misses the days of Crowder's Commandos. He misses Boyd- the Boyd he met in jail five years ago. Boyd had picked him out of the herd that night when he'd come to spring Bowman for something Ava-related. Devil had just been released from the pen in Georgia and was trying to get back to Fayetteville. What he was going back there for, he had no idea. What he did know what that the distributing charges he'd just been picked up on was a parole violation if the ancient Harlan County dial-up downloaded it before he found someone to bail him.

Boyd had looked Devil over and decided to bail him. Devil never exactly knew why. He clung to the notion that Boyd saw something special in him, although there was always a nagging in the back of his mind that said what Boyd saw was a follower. Whatever the case, Boyd had done him a good turn and Devil had followed.

Followed him right up the front steps and into Arlo's house and Helen's kitchen, which is now Ava's kitchen. Devil watches in anxious horror has Ava lulls Boyd into domesticity with her cooking, and her pretty dresses, and her perfumed soap.

Even worse, the longer they stay, the more Ava thinks she has a say. Worse than that, when she does speak up about business (which is more and more often), she's usually right. Devil has never had a head for business. He has a head for driving fast and blowing shit up, talents which seem to be needed less and less often by Boyd.

Devil comes to the table and sits down. Ava serves him scrambled eggs. There will be pancakes, she informs him. He won't be the least-bit surprised if she makes them with little smiley faces or D's for "Devil" on them.

Devil imagines this and becomes even more pissed.

"Where's Arlo got off to?" He asks her.

"Didn't say. I hope he's gone after Boyd."

"Where's Boyd?"

He glances over at Ava. She's standing on tiptoes peering out the kitchen window at the gravel drive that leads away from the house and down to the main road.

"I don't know. He didn't come home last night."

A glimmer of light stirs deep in Devil's soul. Down deep within him, below the tattoo of the Aryan Nation eagle that Boyd told him to get, his heart leaps a little.

Boyd didn't come home last night. He didn't call or she wouldn't be looking out the window like that. She ain't expecting him or she'd have made more eggs. Boyd is stepping out on Ava.

Devil can't help but smile a little. There's crunch in his first bite of scrambled eggs. She's left a bit of shell in. The eggs are imperfect. She's teetering on her throne. For the first time in a long time, Devil gets the feeling it's going to be a beautiful day in Harlan County.

* * *

><p>"You sure you want to do this?" Tim asks Randi.<p>

They're in the parking garage below the courthouse and he's looking around for the car requisitioned to him for their trip down to Harlan. Art has decided, given the situation with Raylan, not to waste any time breaking this intern in. Tim was hoping he'd make Randi do some filing for a few days, preferably in a room downstairs from the Marshall's main office.

"What- drive to Harlan?"

"No, the whole thing. You really think this is the place for you?"

His motives are too transparent and he knows it.

"Why wouldn't it be?" She points to the far end of the garage. "That it?"

"Well, I can't say I know you well…"

She smirks at that. He continues:

"But you don't really seem like the law enforcement type."

"How do you figure?"

"There's drug paraphernalia all over your apartment for one thing."

They've reached the car. He clicks the button on the key ring and opens the door. He gets in on the passenger side, fires it up, and begins to fill out the mileage form. Randi gets in next to him.

"I'm not detecting a threat there, am I, Gutterson? 'Cause if it is, let me remind you that your DNA is also all over my apartment."

"It's not a threat- just an observation. The rest of us have to piss in a cup one a month. It's part of the job. The whole job is a lifestyle decision."

Tim peers at her from the corner of his eye. She's looking out the window, amused.

"What?" He asks.

"Gutterson…"

"Shit, you can call me Tim. You were calling me Tim before we got here this morning. No sense in going back to anything more formal."

"Christ on the cross," she mutters, and then she cracks that mocking grin again. "You were calling me all sorts of cute names before we got here this morning. We going to go back to that, too?"

"Shut up, McKittrick," he tells her.

"You get beat up a lot when you were a kid, Gutterson? Your mama make you wear girls clothes?"

"You're the shrink. You tell me."

He puts the car in reverse and steers it out of the parking garage. He doesn't bother with the radio. He has a feeling they'd just fight over which station.

"So, how'd you get here?" She asks when they've left the city behind.

"I took a left on Broadway and hooked up with 25. Going to get on the interstate just south of the golf course."

She calls him a douchebag under her breath and he smiles. Not many people can tell when Tim is joking around. It's taken an experimental psychology intern to figure it out. He knows that should disturb him on some level, but for the moment it means it's going to be a lot easier driving to Harlan with her than with Raylan.

"How'd I get to the Marshall's service? By way of the army. Went to Rangers training, then Afghanistan."

"Jesus Christ," She whispers, as if it's just now dawned on her how not her usual "type" he is. "How long you been back?"

"Three years, maybe. Debriefed in Germany for a bit, then Marshall's training."

"You're not from here?"

Tim shakes his head. "Texas. You?"

"Arkansas."

"You and Devil Ellis."

"Me and the Devil. Christ," she trails off. She has his file on her lap, but she hasn't opened it since looking it over with Art in the office.

"Any idea how you're going to play that?" Tim asks her. He gestures to the file.

"I'm not going to play at anything, I don't think. He's going to know I didn't just show up by chance. He's not stupid."

"From what I hear he is."

Randi shrugs. "Well, he's not brain-dead. I'm going to tell him straight up. Tell him Boyd's going to go away for a long time for kidnapping Givens. This is his shot to get the hell out."

"Like he's going to do that."

"No, he won't, but he'll tell me why he's not going to. Might find something out about what Boyd's done with Marshall Givens that way."

Tim begins to explain to her how it's going to play from his end. They'll enter the bar where the Crowder boys like to while away their afternoons. Tim will go in first. He needs to get the lay of the land. Randi should give him about five minutes before she comes in. If Tim comes out before then, it means they've recognized him from the times before when he's come down with Raylan. He's betting they won't.

Randi should not approach Devil. Let him come to her. If he doesn't, she is to finish her drink, get back in the car, and they'll head back to Lexington. If he does approach her, she is to keep him talking where Tim can see them. She is not to go anywhere with Devil. Just shoot the shit. Don't get him upset.

"And, if he makes a move," Tim tells her, "I'm going to shoot him."

"If he makes what kind of move?" Randi asks. She winks at him and opens Devil's file.

Tim rolls his eyes. "If he draws."

"Just checking."


	4. Chapter 4

I do not own Justified.

**Moonshine Blind- Four**

As a kid, Boyd Crowder got migraine headaches. His father said only girls got those, and- unfortunately- the fact that his mother frequently got them herself only helped Bo's case.

With most physical pain, Boyd could attach some kind of meaning it, make it into a test. With the migraines, though, the pain was just too great to care about being tested. All Boyd wanted to think about was sleep, and when the pain grew too severe for that, he started to think about dying.

He has a headache now, and he hasn't had a full-blown one in years. He learned with age that the strangest things made them go away- marijuana, sex, jerking off if there wasn't a woman handy, holding a scalding hot cup of coffee to the side of his head. A few times, Boyd had done that until his skin blistered. Then he drank the coffee.

At the moment, though, he's back to death being his only option. The only reason he doesn't take it is because Raylan's there. He wouldn't give Raylan the satisfaction.

"I'm going to be sick," Boyd says.

"Well, I'm on your left, so turn to your right, will you?" Raylan answers him.

Boyd grins, turns to his right and vomits.

"Can you see yet?" He asks Raylan when he's done.

"Not really, and you're making me glad for it. I'm starting to make out light. It's foggy."

"Spurge," Boyd says.

Raylan answers, "yes, you did."

"Not, not purge. Spurge. It's a plant, a weed, grows in the yard sometimes and Ava goes batty trying to dig 'em all up. My granny said you could poison people with it. Said it would render them temporarily blind."

"So it wasn't dehydrogenated alcohol?"

"No, it was not that," Boyd says and Raylan scowls at the dark, not quite believing that Boyd knows what he's talking about.

"So, you think Ava poisoned us with a noxious weed from the yard?"

"Ava? No, not Ava. Everyone in Harlan County knows about spurge…except you, it would seem. Hell, even Devil knows what it is. He tried to feed it to a cat once that kept coming around."

"How did that work out for him?"

"Well, it was a plant, so the cat wouldn't eat it."

"I once knew a cat that ate broccoli."

"Well, we were fresh out of broccoli at that moment. Perhaps if Devil had thought to steam the spurge with broccoli he'd have rid himself of the cat. Raylan, do you have any idea where we are?"

Raylan nods at nothing. "Funny you should ask. Smells like a basement. It smells like _my_ basement. I mean, Arlo's. I remember hiding down here from him when I was a kid. I could swear we're in Arlo's basement."

"Any reason you can think why Arlo would poison us?"

"I can think of plenty why he'd want to poison me. You're a conundrum, though."

"You wouldn't be the first person to say that."

There are footsteps on the floor above them.

"I know that creak," Raylan whispers to Boyd. "This is Arlo's house alright."

There are voices upstairs, but they're unintelligible. A door slams. Outside, a car fires up.

"How long until this stuff wears off?" Raylan asks Boyd.

"Hard to say. Seems like it's starting to wear off already. I can make out a window."

"If we can get untied and get up there stairs, we can call somebody."

Boyd nods. Every time he moves, his head throbs. He can't think straight enough to work through who might be wanting to blind him and tie him up in Arlo's basement. Again, his thoughts turn to Devil. Always scheming, but never getting any better at it as much practice as he's had. This doesn't feel like something Devil would come up with- Devil isn't really the kind to take hostages- but he's the best guess Boyd has.

His head throbs, his gut churns. He turns again and vomits.

"Your other right," Raylan growls.

* * *

><p>The last time he saw her he was holding up his end of her brother's casket at St. Michael's Cemetery on the north end of Fayetteville. He and Richie McKittrick had just graduated high school. Randi'd been gone a year and was only back for the funeral. She hadn't even looked at him then, and he'd always figured it was because he'd been drinking with Richie the night of the accident.<p>

So when he sees her for the first time in ten years, leaning up against the bar recently overtaken by Boyd, himself, and Johnny, it's an old shame that keeps him staring. And the pills. And annoyance that his old life and his new one have converged.

He tells Johnny he'll handle it- and that he'll bring back some more popcorn- and goes to the bar. He steps up next to her and leans over to look for a new basket. The nine millimeter stuffed in the waist of his jeans ought to be visible to her. He doesn't look at her when he says:

"The hell are you doing here, Randi Rose?"

"Well, I'll be damned, Danny," she says, not looking at him either. "May I call you Danny? It's been a while."

"You can call me whatever you want as long as it's paired up with you saying 'see you later'."

She feigns being hurt. "Damn, kid, you aren't going to buy me a drink?"

He nods at her Pepsi. "You got a drink. Now drink it and run along."

"What is wrong with you? You haven't seen me in ten years. Is this place set for demolition? Why're you in such a hurry to get rid of me?"

"Because I seen you come in right after that guy, or Johnny did. Said he was a Marshall from Lexington."

"Johnny's an observant fellow, isn't he?"

"Get out, Randi Rose." Devil jerks his head towards his friend back at the table. He isn't subtle about it. "You don't want to fuck with these guys."

She raises an eyebrow. She never did take him seriously. She never took anything too seriously.

"I'm not fucking with them, Devil. Just with you."

He smiles down at the bar. He remembers sneaking up on her in a bar when she was seventeen and he was sixteen. Neither of them was supposed to be there. She had been there too long already. He'd spun her around on her barstool and she'd squawked at him that she was going to puke. She'd stopped herself from spinning by grabbing on to his shoulders and then knitting her fingers behind his neck. He wonders- if he tried spinning her around now- would she still grab on to him to stop herself, and then would she still kiss him? And if she did, would that Marshall over in the corner put one through the side of his head?

Back then, it was Richie who'd fucked the whole thing up for him. Devil'd had his hand on Randi's waist, pulling her hips to the edge of the barstool when goddamned Richie had come along and smacked him on the back of the head and told his sister to get on home.

He presses his lips together- his most annoyed expression. "You a cop now?"

"Nope."

"There more of them outside?"

"Hundreds."

"Shut the fuck up," he says. Johnny's looking at him like he's consorting with the enemy. Or else Johnny really wants that popcorn and Devil's taking too damned long with it. "It's been lovely to see you. You look good. Now get the hell out."

Devil turns away from her. The basket of popcorn catches on the bar and half of it spills out on to the floor. He hovers for a second trying to decide whether or not to clean it up. He decides not. The best course of action right now is to get as far away from that woman as possible and hope that- for once- she does what she's told.

"Lovely to see you, too," Randi says. She doesn't tell him that he looks good. He's well aware that he doesn't.

* * *

><p>Tim looks at Devil and sees the kid in school who always had to sit in the desk closest to the teacher. Started out eating glue and moved on up to sniffing it. Always being given little jobs to do to keep him busy and make him feel special.<p>

He had figured that was the kind of relationship Randi had to Devil, too- some kind of benevolent guardian. She was a smart pretty girl who took pity on a guy like Devil because he was an insecure asshole.

The way she hardly tries with Devil and then walks past Tim and out the door of Johnny Crowder's bar changes his mind about that. She doesn't look at Tim, and it's not because she's trying to be inconspicuous. She's rattled. She looks like someone punched her in the gut. Tim suppresses the urge to take a shot himself.

Instead, he begins needling her as soon as they're both back out in the daylight.

"He was your boyfriend," Tim says. It's a statement not a question. When she opens her mouth to protest, he keeps right on going, "Because I have sisters, and they have friends, and we all went to the same high school, and ten years down the road I could give a damn about any of them. I don't get that vibe from you and Mr. Ellis at all. Not that it matters to me. You're an adult and all, and you can fuck who you want to fuck, but I need to know if me shooting him is going to be a problem for you. If you're going to attempt to keep me from doing that in a way that could put either of us in danger, you probably ought to own up to that now."

Randi just says, "Who put a nickel in you?"

Tim shrugs. He starts to walk back towards the car. When he doesn't hear her footsteps following, he stops and turns around. He continues:

"And don't go cracking wise or trying to make like I'm jealous or whatever. You think I'm jealous of whatever that was? Shit, my tattoo's bigger. I bet my dick is too. Don't matter either way. I'm not playing a game. I'm here to do one thing…"

"And is that thing stand in the middle of the street and prattle on about your tattoos and the size of your dick?" She springs back to life. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Get in the damned car," Tim says. Once they're both inside and the engine is running, Tim tells her, "We didn't drive all the way down here to lure Devil and his buddies into therapy. Your only purpose in being here was to get him to tell you something about Raylan's whereabouts. My purpose was to keep him from killing you. You didn't get shit out of him about Raylan…"

"But I'm not dead, so let's go buy you some fucking ice cream."

Tim hits the accelerator. Gravel sprays across the street.

"You should have told me if there was anything between you and him that was going to affect your behavior, that could have compromised either of our safety."

She doesn't say anything. Just nods.

Tim drives for a few miles before he asks her again, "is there anything you'd like to tell me?"

"Congratulations. Your dick's bigger," she says, which pretty much tells him what he needs to know.

She doesn't say anything after that- just stares ahead and watches the sky get dark. Tim figures she's mad, but he doesn't know if it's because she's not used to being chided or if it's because her old boyfriend grew up to be a skinhead. He doesn't ask.


	5. Chapter 5

I do not own Justified or the song "St. James Infirmary". The Josh White version truly is some spooky shit, though.

**Moonshine Blind- Five**

_Let her go, let her go, God bless her_

_Where ever she may be_

_She can search the wide world over_

_And never find as sweet a man as me…_

There might've been a knock on the door, but she's got the music up awful loud. She couldn't sleep, so Randi got up and started cleaning house in her t-shirt and not much else. It's a Metallica t-shirt. It was her brother's. He had two of them, and was buried in the other. She took _Damaged Justice_ back to college in Little Rock. He took _Where Ever I May Roam_ to his grave.

There's a second knock. Randi scurries to turn the music down. She decides against sweatpants or a robe. She isn't planning on opening the door more than a quarter inch.

She peers through the peephole. There's a hand covering it, blocking her view.

"I'm not opening up. Take your hand down first." God, she hates this neighborhood.

The hand comes down and Randi peeks again. _Oh shit_.

She opens the door and the cool mist from the outside reminds her that she's barely dressed. Danny looks her up and down, rubs the bridge of his broken nose with his thumbs, and makes like she's the one who's such an embarrassment. Danny- with that creepy woodpecker tattoo peeping over the neck of his wifebeater and the rune on his neck. He's got no right to be looking at her like she's not fit to be seen in public.

He's got no right to be here.

"That Richie's?" He nods towards her t-shirt. "Shit, Randi Rose, you going to ask me in? It's raining."

"What? You going to melt away in the rain?"

He mocks her: "What? You can't put on pants and let me inside?"

She takes a step back and lets him in.

He tells her, "You don't have to put on pants if you don't want, girl. Just- you know- if it'd make you more comfortable."

Randi looks out across the parking lot before she shuts the door. When she turns around to face him, he's right there, looking down at her with a cocked eyebrow.

"Ain't nothing out there but cars. I came alone."

She doesn't bother to ask how he found her. He probably googled her. Maybe called her stepdad. For all she knows, he followed her and Tim back from Harlan.

"You come here with a purpose, Danny?"

"Well, it seemed like you wanted to chat this afternoon, and it just wasn't a good time for me. Thought maybe we could finish what we started."

His smirk tells her he's speaking as much about what they started in Fayetteville as he is about Harlan.

"Unless you know where Boyd Crowder's got Marshall Givens hid away, I think we about wrapped it up."

"What do you mean?"

She puts her hands on her hips and then drops them again, and tugs at the hem of her t-shirt.

"I mean, we're done. I need you to play ball with me on this, Danny. If you don't want…"

"No, I know all that, and I don't give a shit," he says. "I don't need your help. Boyd might, though. He don't have Raylan hid away nowhere. We thought the Marshalls had Boyd. I ain't got no idea where he's at."

"You're shittin' me."

"I most certainly am not."

Randi and Devil take a second to inspect one another's eyes. Devil blinks first and rubs his nose. Randi frowns. She gestures at the couch.

"Sit down."

"What're you going to do?"

"Sit," she tells him again as she goes to the other end of the room. Devil follows her instead. She turns around at her bedroom door.

"I asked what you were doing."

"Getting pants, asshole. You don't need to watch me do that."

"I been watching you not wearing them…"

"Just go sit. Jesus Christ."

Devil shrugs. "Don't you be calling nobody now."

"Am I going to call them with my pants?"

He can't hope to stifle a grin. "You'd better not pull no gun on me either, little girl."

"Believe me," she shouts from the next room. "If I had one, you'd already know it."

"You don't have a gun? Not even a little one?" He sits on the couch and looks around the room. It's clean, but disorganized. There must be hundreds of books. He figures he could put all the books together and make a wall and create a whole separate room. He leans forward to read the titles of the ones laid on the coffee table: The Autobiography of a Recovering Skinhead, Blood In Blood Out- The Violent Empire of the Aryan Brotherhood, Hate Crimes- Criminal Law and Identity Politics. He lets the books be and checks out her c.d.'s instead.

"Doing a little research?" He asks her when she comes back from the bedroom wearing cut-off sweats. He doesn't even look her way, she notices, to see if she's come back with some kind of weapon. After all this time, he's the one who knows her and she doesn't know him at all anymore.

"You got any to recommend?"

He smirks and looks back at her again.

"Josh White," he says. "The old guy, not his son. Ever heard of him?"

She pauses for a second, and then the name registers and she realizes he's fucking with her. He's not talking about books.

"Josh White the folk singer."

"Yeah, the way he does 'St. James Infirmary'. That's some spooky shit."

"They know you're listening to him and they still let you play their little skinhead games?"

"Well, his last name's White. Maybe they just ain't figured it out yet."

They sit opposite one another and hash out who might want both Raylan and Boyd. Randi doesn't even try to convince him to let her call the Marshalls. He knows she's going to do it as soon as he's gone. He tells her everyone in Harlan that he doesn't like- which is most of Harlan. It doesn't take long before they've slipped back into talking to each other mean and easy like they did in high school. She curls her toes on the edge of the coffee table when she leans forward to talk to him.

"What bunch of dumb crackers…" he complains about Harlan.

"Shit, Danny, look at you- you're the definition of a dumb cracker."

He gives her the finger and his little pursed-lip sneer, thinks about hitting her, but doesn't do it. Hitting her wouldn't shut her up. She's not that kind. She'll shut up when she's dead, and he still likes her enough that he isn't going to do her in.

"I don't get it," he says. "I don't know why anyone'd snatch both Boyd and the Marshall. Seems they're two sides of a coin. Anyone after one'd be a friend to the other."

"You didn't do anything stupid, did you, Danny?"

"You say that Iike you assume I did." He tosses her c.d. back on the coffee table to indicate that they're done. "I guess we're two side of a coin now ourselves, Randi Rose. Hope you find your Marshall buddy."

She mumbles that he's still such a fucking baby. He snaps back that the Marshalls probably wouldn't like it if they knew she was still calling him 'baby'. He stands up and purposely walks around the table so that he has to step over her feet rested on the coffee table. He reaches down and wiggles her pinkie toe. Randi retracts her feet.

Devil walks out her door singing "St. James Infirmary" to himself and giving her an awful case of the creeps.

* * *

><p>She calls him because his number is in her phone in case they got separated while they were in Harlan.<p>

He answers with an oddly informal, "What's going on?"

"I just had a very strange visitor. I think I'm supposed to call one of you guys."

She can hear him moving on the couch or the chair where he's sitting. Tim the Sniper has switched on.

"Define strange."

"Danny just left."

"I'll be right there. Don't let anyone else in, and stay away from that front window. Stay clear of all the windows."

* * *

><p>When he gets there, he asks her if she's alright, but doesn't wait for an answer. He walks through her apartment- opening closet doors, peeking behind the shower curtain. Randi leans on the arm of her chair and watches him.<p>

"He's not here. I watched him drive away."

"Your kitchen window's unlocked. Christ. Lock that shit up."

He does it for her and then takes out his phone.

"Who're you calling?"

"Rachel. You can't stay here by yourself," he tells her and gestures to an ashtray on the coffee table. "You better start picking up those papers and shit, empty that ashtray. Flush it, don't put it in the trash."

Randi rolls her eyes. "I'm not dumping my weed…"

"How much more do you have?"

"You just searched my apartment. I don't need anyone to stay with me. He's gone. He's not going to do anything."

"But he found you, which means any of the rest of them can find you. You might trust him- and I sure as hell don't- but if he followed us, someone could've followed him. I'm calling Rachel."

Randi sighs. "Then why don't you just stay? Sleep on the couch, or I'll sleep on the couch…"

"Well, yeah, I'd have to sleep on the couch…"

He puts his phone away and she offers him a cup of coffee. She could smell beer on him when she opened the door, but he seems alert enough now. She asks him if he wants something to eat. He doesn't.

Tim makes himself comfortable on the sofa. He looks around and realizes Randi doesn't have a television.

"He take your t.v.?"

They smile at each other for the first time.

"I don't have one. You want to watch something, there's the computer."

"Nah, I'm good. What're you reading?" He looks over the books just like Devil did. "Studying up on your old boyfriend? Trying to get back in his head?"

She flips him off without turning away from the coffee pot.

"Hate crimes. My research area is hate crimes. That's why I got sent to you all."

Tim hmms, and flips through the book about the recovering Skinhead.

"Does that ever happen?" He asks.

"Do you mean 'am I hoping it'll happen'?"

He doesn't answer her. He leans back and stretches his arms across the back of the sofa. He shakes his head and smirks at her. Randi ignores him until the coffee is finished. Then she brings him a cup and sits down in the chair next to the couch.

She nods towards the ashtray and the dime bag and the small piece of plumbing pipe laying in it.

"Do you mind if…"

"Yeah. I'd have to arrest you. I should arrest you now."

"You bring handcuffs?"

Tim raises an eyebrow and tries not to laugh. "Brought a gun."

"Well, that sort of takes all the fun out of it."

"Why don't you tell me what your darling Devil was doing here?"

"Best guess? He wants me to know that he knows where I'm at. Seen it in domestic violence situations. He isn't going to hurt me physically, but he's going to try to intimidate me by reminding me that he's around."

"Sounds like a winner. He ever knock you around when you were kids?"

She shakes her head. "My brother would've killed him. Couldn't speak towards him and any other girls, though. He said Boyd Crowder doesn't have Raylan. They don't know where Boyd is either."

"That's probably bullshit."

Randi shakes her head. "Danny's not a real good bullshitter. He'd like to think he is…"

"He have anything else enlightening to say?"

Randi recounts the rest of her conversation with Devil. When she gets to the part when she and Devil started sniping at each other and he walked out, Tim says:

"You really need to work on your interview skills."

He takes his gun out of the holster and lays it on the coffee table next to the ashtray. He looks at the contents of the one more time and shakes his head.

Randi throws a blanket at him and he pretends to be knocked over by the weight of it. She stands there and watches him as he gets settled.

"We're not doing this," he tells her when he notices she's still there.

"Not doing what?"

"We're not doing anything."

"Me-ow," she says. "Who said anything about doing anything? You're pretty damned cocky, Gutterson. You think I'm going to stand here and look you over and not be able to control myself?"

"Wasn't worried about you," he replies. He closes his eyes and waits for her to go away. She goes into her room, goes into the bathroom. He can hear her brushing her teeth. She comes into the living room again and snatches her ashtray off the coffee table.

"I'll put a towel under the door. It'll be just like high school," She calls to him over her shoulder.

"That how you and Devil used to do it?" He calls back.

"Oh, to hell with you," she mumbles.

He hears the lighter click and he opens his eyes. She's lit the end of her one-hit and is letting the smoke trickle out from between her lips.

He turns away from her again and tells her, "You're under arrest, McKittrick."

"I bought it here in Lexington. Don't you guys only meddle in shit that's transported across state lines?"

"I'm making a citizen's arrest."

She's come closer again. She's standing over him and he can smell it on her.

"You drove over here buzzed. Can I make a citizen's arrest, too?"

"No, because I'm making mine first," he says. "And because my drug of choice is legal."

"You going to let me in there or what?"

Tim opens one eye and looks up her. She's standing with her hand on her hip, again blowing smoke out of the corner of her mouth. He gestures for her to put it back on the coffee table and draws the blanket back. Randi crawls in between him and the back of the sofa and intertwines her legs with his.

"We're going to have to work on a story," he tells her. "You have to tell Art that Devil was here, and then we're going to have to think of a good reason why you called me, and why I stayed here and didn't call Rachel."

Randi shrugs. "I'm kind of stoned. I don't think we want me making up that story."

"Stoner," he grumbles. Tim turns on to his side. He slips his hand under the elastic of her sweatpants and lets it rest on her behind. She kisses him and she tastes like pot and it's the closest thing he's had to a hit since Afghanistan. He figures making up a story can wait.


	6. Chapter 6

Still don't own Justified.

**Moonshine Blind- Six**

In his fondest of dreams, it is standard office protocol for Art Mullen to tell his staff, "alright, everyone just line up so I can start smacking you. Everyone except for Rachel". He envisions Rachel as his second-in-command, in training for the day when it will be her turn to beat them all into obedience.

Art opens his desk drawer and gives the bottle of Maker's Mark within a longing look. Then he looks at the clock on his computer and shuts the drawer. It's too early to drink. It's also too damned early to watch one of his deputies walk in to office with the intern.

They're doing a shitty job of trying to hide it. Not for a minute does he believe they met up on the elevator. They're doing this funny little dance, blinking and shrugging back and forth at one another, like they don't know how to separate in a way that no one will notice. _Too late_, Art thinks.

He is about to call Tim into his office and perhaps knock him over the head with the bottle in his desk. Randi comes to his door before he can. She taps at the doorframe.

"Yes, ma'am," he says. "Come on in."

Art sits back and waits for the story. Instead she tells him about her visit from Devil Ellis. When she tells him that she called Deputy Gutterson, she gets just a little bit squirmy and Art decides he might as well have some fun with her.

"You called Tim?"

"Yes. He came over and checked the place out."

"Well, Tim's very thorough. I'm sure he got everything checked out for you."

Her eyes widen just a little. He's penetrated the poker face. Art is beyond pleased with himself.

"You should've had someone stay with you. Did Tim call Rachel?"

Randi shakes her head. "I didn't think he needed to. I know Danny. He took off. It wasn't his intent to hang around."

"And Tim agreed that it wasn't necessary to call Rachel."

"Yeah, he searched the place and determined that."

"And he slept on the couch, right?"

Her eyes dart up to meet his.

"Of course he did," Art says. "Why don't you head on into the conference room and start to writing a report on your conversation with Devil. And tell Tim to come on in for a chat."

Randi nods and leaves the office. She goes to Tim's desk and knocks on it. Tim spins around in his chair.

"What'd he say?"

"I think I've been sent to the other room to write sentences. He wants to talk to you."

"What sentences do you have to write?"

"_I will not seduce deputy US Marshalls_. Have to write it 100 times."

Tim smirks. "_I will not seduce_…makes it sound like I was powerless."

"Does that make you uncomfortable, Deputy Gutterson?"

Before he can reply, Art pops his head out of his office and says, "When you two are finished getting your stories straight…"

"Wonder what sentence I'm going to have to write," Tim mumbles to Randi as he leaves his desk.

When Tim comes into his office, Art leans back in his chair and intertwines his fingers behind his head. It's a deceptively submissive pose. He appears to be opening himself up to listen and absorb whatever Tim is about to tell him. Tim knows from experience that Art is going to speak first.

Tim shuts the door.

Art sounds tired when he begins, "I suppose I should be happy for you. I was beginning to think maybe you weren't human, in which case we waste a hell of a lot of money paying for your health insurance. You weren't planning on ever running for senate, were you?"

Tim shakes his head.

"Good. They frown upon a history of sleeping with interns."

"I wouldn't say I had a history."

"Nope, sorry, that's Raylan. You're Tim. Until this morning, it was just your drinking I was worried about."

"You're worried about my drinking?"

"Aren't you?"

Tim frowns and shakes his head at Art.

"Well, shit, then," Art says. "I have that to worry about as well- you not being worried about your worrisome drinking. Were you loaded when you met her?"

Tim tries to look away.

"Were you loaded when you went over there last night?"

"I'd had a couple."

"But your phone was on. Did you have four bars? Was there anything on God's green earth preventing you from calling Rachel and asking her to go over there instead of you?"

Tim wishes to hell he could just go write sentences.

"Tim, to be honest, right now you and Miss McKittrick are the least of my worries. This office already seems to have a problem with inter-office and inter-building and inter-witness romances. We need to check into whoever is delivering our water. What I'm more concerned about is that all I know about your life outside of this office is that you drink from 5:00 until beddy-bye and you've slept with the intern. What'd you have for dinner last night?"

Tim shrugs. He doesn't know.

"What kind of beer were you drinking?"

_Shit_, Tim thinks. "Rolling Rock."

His point made, Art switches gears so fast that it makes Tim nauseous.

"Judging from the portion of you and Miss McKittrick's tale that I do believe, we need to bring in Devil Ellis. He may not know what's going on either, but he at least has a different perspective on it than we do."

"He has a different perspective all right," Tim says.

"Go get him," Art tells him. "Bring him back up here. Call down to Harlan County first for some back-up and see if he's got any outstanding warrants we could hold him under the guise of."

Tim nods. "So we're okay?"

"No, we're never okay here. No one in this office is ever okay. Whatever it is you're doing with her, just promise me you won't breed."

Tim feels his cheeks flush. He flees from Art's office in the direction of Harlan County.

* * *

><p>Devil Ellis is waiting, handcuffed to the armrest of a bench in the Harlan County sheriff's office, when Tim arrives. Oddly, he has no outstanding warrants, but he did have a broken taillight that may or may not have been broken before the Harlan County deputy pulled him over.<p>

"Good morning," Tim says to the deputy.

"Give it time," the deputy replies. He jerks his head in Devil's direction. "Mr. Ellis is feeling feisty this morning."

"He'll simmer down. He ought to be getting sleepy soon. This'll be the second drive up to Lexington he's had in the last 12 hours."

Tim looks at Devil out of the corner of his eye to see what kind of reaction that gets. All it gets is a rolled back head and a sneer.

"Speaking of driving…if that's your logic," Devil says, "I'd think you'd be getting sleepy too, Marshall."

Tim tells him, "Don't try to think, Ellis."

They argue about Devil getting into the car. Tim insists he stay handcuffed.

"I ain't riding for two hours with my hands cuffed behind my back," Devil says.

"I could tie you to the bumper," Tim offers.

"Ain't I supposed to wear a seatbelt by law? How am I going to wear a seatbelt with my hands cuffed behind me?"

"Have you ever before in your life worn a seatbelt?"

"No."

"Well, let's just go with that then. Duck."

Tim pushes Devil's head down and stuffs him into the passenger seat.

"Am I even under arrest?" Devil asks Tim when he gets in behind the wheel. "I don't got any warrants in Lexington neither."

"No, you're not under arrest."

"Then why am I still cuffed?"

"Precautionary measure. The sheriff's deputy said you were feisty when he picked you up."

"'Cause the stupid son of a bitch kicked out my tail light. And I'll take exception with his idea of feisty."

Tim doesn't know whose head to bang on the dashboard first- his own or Devil's.

"Just for fun," he says. "How do you define feisty?"

Devil just makes a face. They drive in silence for a while. Devil chews on his lip. Tim contemplates how Raylan Givens could possibly have grown up here and still pass a psych evaluation. Maybe Randi should take a stab at that, if they ever find Raylan.

Tim muses, "So you and Miss McKittrick had a little visit last night."

Devil glares.

"Hell of a drive in the middle of the night just to chat. Something you didn't want to do over the phone?"

"I don't know her number. What the hell is she doing with you people anyway?"

"She's an intern in our office. She helps with stuff."

"Like she has a job?" Devil asks, incredulous, as if the idea of anyone having a job is bizarre to him.

"Like, yes, she does. She's going to school and this is her practical experience."

"How is showing up in Johnny Crowder's bar and giving me shit practical experience?"

"We like to call it field experience," Tim explains. "It's practice for when she's a doctor and has a whole caseload of people to give shit to."

Devil grins a little at that. "She ought to be well-practiced then. Sure knew how to read me the riot act."

"Did she now?" Tim knows that he really doesn't want to know. And, yet, he does.

"Used to tell me I was a follower and it was going to get me in trouble. Used to say I allowed myself to get led or some shit. I don't know. It was a long time ago."

"Sounds like she about had your number."

Devil shrugs. "I don't know what the hell she was talking about. I just liked watching her talk."

Tim takes a deep breath and begs the Good Lord to shut Devil up now. Please, please, please do not let him continue in this vein. The Good Lord opts not to intervene.

"You know she smokes a lot of dope, right?" Devil says. "Shit, we used to smoke up- a whole bunch of us- and play Ghost in the Graveyard in this barn. You ever played Ghost in the Graveyard?"

Tim nods. "Is that like hide-and-go-seek, but every time the ghost finds someone they get to help him find the rest until there's a whole pack looking?"

"Yeah, that's it. Except when we played it we were high, and people would start pairing off and sneaking away together to make out."

"Are you going to tell me that eventually the couples turned into packs until everyone was making out with everyone and it became one big orgy in a barn? Because that's pretty much what I picture whenever I hear someone say 'Arkansas'."

Devil snorts. "Hell, I wish. No, what really happened was there would be less and less people because the couples would just start disappearing. Randi's brother Richie was kind of psycho-protective of her. It was really the only time we were ever alone."

"Well, thank Heaven for small favors."

"Yeah, thank Heavens," Devil winks at Tim.

Tim changes the subject: "So why did you need to visit Miss McKittrick so late last night?"

"I just happened to be in the neighborhood."

"I thought Harlan was your neighborhood."

"Shit, man, you know why I was there. She must've already told you if she's doing stuff in your office."

"You got me, Devil. I already know, but what she told us was so fascinating we thought we needed to haul you up to Lexington again so we could all hear you tell it in your colorful vernacular."

"Did you?"

"I didn't, but my boss did."

Devil smiles. He's decided he could like Tim, maybe, if he got a few drinks in him. And if he'd take off these damned handcuffs. It's so easy to make Raylan Givens mad that it almost isn't fun. This fellow's a little more difficult to shake up.

"Randi gonna be there then?" Devil asks.

"Yep."

Devil smiles to himself, and Tim frowns.

Devil says, "Once, when we was playing ghost-in-the-graveyard, and she and I took off…I was going down on her in the back of my buddy's car, and she told me…well, she told me afterwards that I had talent but my mouth was writing checks that the rest of me couldn't cash. I always figured there was some deeper meaning behind that. Never did figure out what it was."

Tim squirms. "Maybe she meant that you like to talk a big game but everyone knows you're never going to be the guy with the plan."

"Maybe," Devil says. "I always just reckoned she meant I was never going to get her in the sack, but with her…well, there's usually something poetic or- what's the damned word? I never went past tenth grade in English."

"Figurative," Tim says, and surprises himself a little.

"Sounds about right," Devil replies, and then doesn't elaborate anymore, for which Tim is thankful. As predicted, Devil falls asleep then. He fidgets around until he gets halfway comfortable with his head against the door.

Tim sneaks the radio on, but there isn't a song all the way back to Lexington that can get him out of his head.


	7. Chapter 7

I do not own Justified.

**Moonshine Blind- Seven**

Tim ushers Devil into the Marshall's office and sits him in a chair in front of Rachel's desk. Rachel looks up, shakes her head, and goes back to what she was doing. Devil eyes Rachel with annoyance.

"Say something nice to Deputy Brooks," Tim tells Devil and walks away before he has to hear what Devil's idea of nice might be.

Art waves Tim into his office.

"I'd like you and Miss McKittrick to question him together. Mostly, I just want her to get a feel for the way we do it." He pauses to give Tim a suspicious look. Tim rolls his eyes. "I've already discussed this with her. She's pretty confident that he doesn't know anything…"

"I'd have to agree there."

"…about Raylan and Boyd, but from what I understand he's been living either at Crowder's compound or with him at Raylan's dad's place since…since he got out of the pen a couple of years ago. He knows Boyd as well as anyone."

Tim nods. He goes back into the main office to find that Rachel has rid herself of Devil by putting him the conference room. Randi is leaning on Tim's desk. She raises an eyebrow at him.

"Was your ride with Devil everything you had hoped for?"

"All that and more. Got to hear about him going down on you in the back seat of a car."

Randi barely flinches. "He's a gentleman and a scholar, isn't he? Oh, why did I ever leave Fayetteville?"

"Anyway, since I'm not really in the mood for lunch now, I was wondering if you'd care to join me while I question Mr. Ellis about his visit with you last night."

"Really, you were wondering that?" She grins at him.

"No, Art said to. Art hates me."

"Ah, so really your plan is to question both me and Devil about our conversation last night. Which side of the table do you want me to sit on?"

"You can sit next to him, if you think you can keep your hands off of each other."

"Well, if we can't, you can just shoot us."

"I'll consider that permission to fire at will," Tim says and steps away from the door so that Randi can go through. He follows her into the next room.

Devil is waiting, seated at the table, tapping his foot and chewing on a pen. Randi steps behind him to sit down.

"Twerp," she mumbles.

"What'd I do?" He says.

"Quite a lot, it seems, Mr. Ellis," Tim says, taking a seat himself. "But I've already heard all I need to hear about that, so now I'd like to ask you a few questions."

Devil looks back and forth between Tim and Randi. He smirks.

"Fire away," he says to Tim.

"Wrong guy, Devil," Randi says. "Not the guy to say that to."

Devil recounts for Tim and Randi how we woke up the morning before last and Ava Crowder made him eggs. He said Boyd had gone in to town that night, but hadn't returned. He thought it was strange that he didn't come home since he usually came home in time for the evening news since taking up with Ava.

Tim asks him what he thinks of Ava.

"She makes me tired," Devil says.

Tim tells him, "I'm sure the feeling is mutual."

"What don't you like about her?" Randi asks.

"Who says I don't like her? She just makes me tired is all. She's antsy."

"_You're_ antsy," Randi replies. "You're chewing on that pen like a coke head. I'll bet you and her are peas in a pod."

"A couple of tired peas," Devil says.

"So, everyone's tired," Tim interrupts. "What did Boyd go into town for night before last?"

"Beer."

"So he went to Cumberland, not Harlan."

Devil shakes his head. "Nope, he went to Harlan. He can buy at the VFW."

Tim asks what time Boyd left and tries to calculate how long it should have taken him to go and be back. He asks Devil when he went to bed. Devil shrugs and says that he watched Letterman. Tim asks him who the guests were and Devil doesn't know- some movie actor and a kid with a trained dog. The musical guest was a couple of girls calling themselves the Civil Wars.

Tim nods. He'd watched Letterman, too. Devil is right about the musicians.

"So, you didn't notice that Boyd hadn't come home until the next morning and Ava told you? That didn't seem odd to you?"

Devil shrugs. "Seemed odd, but the man's almost forty years old. I ain't his mama. Only curfew he's got is with his woman."

Tim and Randi exchange glances. Randi looks back down at her paper, smiling.

"What?" Devil says to her. "What's so damned funny, Randi Rose?"

"Are you jealous, Devil?"

"Of who?" Devil says. "Of Boyd? I told you, that woman makes me tired."

"Not of Boyd, of Ava. She moving in on your cuddle time with your Nazi buddy?"

Tim cringes. Devil does not seem like the kind of guy who would take any kind of homoerotic accusations kindly. To his surprise, Devil plays along with Randi.

"Yeah, it's breaking my cold, black heart, girl. You know I got a possessive streak to me. Shit, what do I care? The woman knows how to handle a gun and cooks a decent meal. Problem is she only takes orders from Boyd. She's sort of like you, except that you don't take orders from nobody."

"What was Ava's reaction to Boyd's not coming home?" Tim asks.

Devil shrugs. "Kept looking out the window for him."

"Did she seem annoyed or worried?"

"She didn't seem terribly broken up, but she might've been putting on a show for me."

"Why would she care what you think?" Randi asks.

"Maybe she's jealous of me and Boyd, too." He sneers at her when he says it. Randi shrugs, like it's quite possible he's right. Devil says "Listen, I know y'all won't believe me if I told you I got shit to do today, but…"

"Yeah," Tim says and sighs. "We might actually owe you an apology. I don't think we're getting anything out of this."

"Well, if you ever make up your mind on that, apology accepted," Devil says. "Can I go now?"

"How are you going to get back to Harlan?"

"I have my ways," he says, and then stops. "Shit…I guess I can't call Boyd. Don't know where Arlo got off to either."

Tim says, "Why don't you call Ava?"

"Why would I want to do that?"

"Just curious." Tim gives Devil back his phone. Devil searches for the number. It takes him forever because he keeps looking up to glare at Tim while he's scrolling, then misses it, and has to scroll back. Randi mumbles once if she can help him and he gives her the finger.

When he finally does get it, it goes to voicemail. He asks Tim if he has a message he'd like for Devil to relay. Tim shakes his head and Devil hangs up.

"Strike you as weird?" Tim says to Randi.

"A little," she replies.

"I think it's a little odd that she isn't picking up if her beloved is missing?"

Devil says, "Maybe he's turned up. Or maybe she just ain't answering because it's me calling."

"Possibly," Tim says. "Ellis, let me see that number. I'm going to call her from my desk."

* * *

><p>"Roland Grey one of yours?" Raylan asks Boyd as he fiddles the last of the twine loose from around Boyd's wrists.<p>

"If he was, Raylan, don't you think the first thing I'd have done would have been to teach him how to tie a knot?"

Raylan smirks. "But you remember Roland, right?"

"Yes, I remember him."

Sometimes Raylan wishes there was a remote for Boyd, some way he could speed his speech up to 1.25 time. Boyd comes across as thoughtful and serene most of the time. Raylan is almost certain it's calculated and meant to be irritating.

"He was one of the ones who brought us here," Raylan says. "Him and another guy. They referred to a 'she' they were working for. Any other women here besides Ava?"

Boyd shakes his head.

"No. Devil doesn't have a girl that I'm aware of. Nor does your daddy."

Raylan shivers at the thought of Arlo with a woman.

"So, they're working for Ava."

"Now, Raylan," Boyd begins…slowly…and Raylan wants to slug him. "If Ava wanted me to come home, she has my number. She could just call me and I'd come home."

"If she wanted you tied up in the basement, would you comply? Is there even a remote possibility that Ava has turned on you? Any trouble in paradise? You do leave her alone with Devil a lot."

Boyd shakes his head. "Ava and Devil don't like each other much. They tolerate one another, but I think she'd probably kill him if she got a chance."

"Well, it seems to me she got a chance and she chose to do away with you."

"We're not dead yet, Raylan."

Raylan takes a tentative step towards the stairs. There have been no sounds upstairs since the last set of footsteps left an hour or so before. His eye sight is foggy, but it's coming back. He feels like he's had his eyes dilated by the eye doctor. Everything is fuzzy and any kind of light is painful. He's not sure he could drive if he needed to. Boyd seems to be coming out of it more slowly.

He tries to stand and follow the rail, but he's dizzy. Raylan crawls up the stairs instead towards the gleam light coming from underneath the door. Boyd follows, shielding his eyes with his arm as he goes.

"Ah, Jesus," Raylan whispers when he reaches the top of the stairs. The full force of the light from the open door is going to damn-near drop him. He turns back to Boyd, "you ready?"

"I've already seen that light, Raylan," Boyd says. "I thought you might remember."

"Shut up," Raylan tells him and pushes open the door.

It's like being swallowed by fire. Raylan can't see anything but white. He squeezes his eyes shut and then opens them again. His eyes try their best to adjust, but light is too great. Raylan turns his back to the door and sits down on the top step.

Cocky as he was a second ago, all Boyd can say now is, "Jesus."

"No, not even close," Raylan tells him.

Boyd grins. "Devil?"

Raylan shakes his head even though he's sure Boyd can't see. "Hear that?"

Boyd listens for a second, tilting his head back and forth. "Rip Van Winkle? Is that snoring?"

"Arlo," Raylan says. "Wouldn't be the first time he chased me into the basement and then fell asleep either."


	8. Chapter 8

I do not own Justified, the Marshall's service or anything with Jerry Garcia's name on it.

**Moonshine Blind- Eight**

"Ava Crowder doesn't answer her phone," Tim says to Randi and Rachel.

"And your caller ID doesn't come up as 'The United States Marshall Service Wants a Word'?" Randi asks.

Rachel shakes her head. "It comes up as Private Caller. It still doesn't get us too far with people who are suspicious of private callers, though."

"Well, shit," Tim says. He sits back down at his desk. He knows he should be worried about Raylan, but Raylan has a history of wandering off and taking care of his own business whenever he gets within a stone's throw of Harlan.

"What's the matter, my little troopers? You all look so sad." Art comes out of his office, eating an apple. "Let me guess? You got nothing?"

"We got nothing."

"Well, I guess you called that one, Tim. Where's your witness?"

Tim jerks his head towards the door. "We don't have a witness. We have a guy who makes harmless late night visits to the psych intern to talk about…what did you talk about?"

"Josh White," Randi says. "The folk singer."

"…yeah, Josh White the folk singer and then wanders back down to Harlan, maintaining a safe and courteous speed, and goes home to have reportedly wonderful eggs cooked for him by Ava Crowder. We got shit."

Art shrugs. "I'd have taken him for more a Metallica boy."

"He was once," Randi says. "Him and my brother. He's branched out."

"Yeah, he's real diverse," Tim mumbles. "We got nothing we can hold him on. Harlan County had him on a broken tail light and nothing else, and I drove him up here, so we can't pull him over for the tail light on his way out of town. Devil just plain sucks."

"There is the thing with Ava Crowder," Rachel offers. "I think you're on to something there."

Tim explains that Ava is not answering her phone, which- to him- feels like Ava isn't overly concerned about Boyd's disappearance.

"I think you're right," Art says, nodding. He tosses his apple core into Tim's trash can. "Deputy Gutterson, guess where you're going this evening?"

"Back down to Deliverance?"

"That's right. Maybe try to catch up to Devil before he gets out of the building. Offer the boy a ride."

* * *

><p>Randi comes off the elevator and sees Devil sitting on a bench in the hall. He's monkeying with his phone and doesn't see her. It crosses her mind to just continue on her path to the soda machine, but something nags at her and makes her turn back to him. She walks up to where he's sitting and kicks at his boot with her toe.<p>

"Why're you still here?"

"The tour don't start till four," he says and shuts his phone. "Can't get a goddamned ride. You want to give me a ride?"

"Wow, if I had a nickel for every time I'd heard you say those words…"

Devil winks at her. "Nah, I just need a ride back to Harlan. I'd supposed I'd have to buy you dinner and a movie to get the other."

"You'd suppose right. I'm not out of here until four-thirty. You'd have to wait around that long. And you still ought to buy me dinner."

"Your Marshall buddy going to be down with that?"

Randi frowns. "Which Marshall buddy is that?"

"The one that hauled me up here. The one you keep exchanging the cute little looks with."

"I ain't exchanging cute looks with anyone. Maybe I'm just cute."

Devil raises his eyebrows and shakes his head at the floor. He sits back and tells her, "Four-thirty. I'll be right here. With bells on."

"Whatever. Just wait at my car, will you? You know which one…black Corolla…?"

"So your Marshall buddy won't see us leave together, huh?"

"So none of the Marshalls see us leave together, dipshit. Every time I speak to you, one of us ends up getting interrogated."

* * *

><p>For the first time all day, Tim is alone with his thoughts. The elevator doors close and he closes his eyes. He sees nothing, and it's a relief. Last night, at Randi's, is the only decent night's sleep he's had since…well, since the previous night at Randi's. The nights before that required between a six and a twelve pack to put him under. Otherwise the dreams jar him awake. He's become accustomed to being lulled to sleep by the spins.<p>

The dreams don't make any sense, and they're not anything he wants to share with the lady who does that annual psych evaluation or with the intern, for that matter. They're not anything he remembers seeing either on the job or in the Middle East. They're not anything at all- just a series of reaching, disembodied hands clawing at him from the dark. Sometimes they're small hands, like those of children. Mostly, they appear old and taunt- like the hands of zombies from a horror movie. They shoot out of the surrounding dark like something Dario Argento dreamed up to pop up from a cemetery plot.

When Tim can close his eyes and see nothing, it's a good day. Right now, he's almost enjoying this quiet two minutes he's going to spend alone with his eyes shut on the elevator.

Then the doors open.

"What's new, pussycat?" Randi's voice asks him.

Tim opens one eye. "I was meditating- trying to mentally prepare to drag my ass down to Hooterville with your boyfriend riding shotgun and regaling me with more stories of your teenage sex life."

"I'll go ahead and kill that dream for you now. There aren't many more stories. Fool around in cars a few times was pretty much all that happened. If he tells you more than that, he's confusing me with a much more tolerant girl."

"What else could he and I possibly have to talk about? Our shared love of beer? The mysterious location of his sleeves?"

Randi shakes her head at the elevator door. "He's always done that…Hey, how about a change of plans?"

"Please."

"I just ran into him in the foyer. He's still here and looking for a ride."

"Poor Devil. Doesn't he have any friends?"

"I feel a Grateful Dead song coming on," Randi says. Tim rubs his temples when she says, "He has me. I said I'd give him a ride. I'll endure the shirt sleeve conversation."

"No…"

"Follow us. I got pissy with him last night, and that was my fault. He's bummed out right now because there's no one down in Harlan to come after him. Maybe I can get him to talk some more."

The bell rings above their heads and the elevator doors open. Tim hangs back, leaning against the back wall, still trying to get his bearings. Randi frowns at him. He raises his eyes, catches her looking concerned, and stands up too quickly.

"What do you think?" Randi asks him.

Tim sighs and tells her, "'If I get home before daylight, I just might get some sleep tonight'," and she grins at him, sort of impressed.

* * *

><p>The Harlan County Sheriff doesn't even jump anymore when he hears the words, "Shots fired at the Arlo Givens residence". In fact, any day he doesn't hear those words is a reason to raise his glass at quitting time. The core four living there are enough to encumber him with a never ending case of the willies. The constant stream of visitors they take in require surveillance nearly around the clock.<p>

"Sheriff, we have shots fired at the Arlo Givens residence," the dispatcher tells him.

"No shit," the sheriff mumbles. "Who called it in?"

"Raylan Givens."

"No shit," the sheriff says again. "He ask for the coroner?"

The dispatcher shakes his head. "Not this time, sir."

"Well, I'll be goddamned," the sheriff says. Maybe he'll get that drink before the night is out yet.

* * *

><p>Boyd sucks in his breath and curls against the wall of Arlo's living room.<p>

"Goddamnit," he hisses. "Do you have any cousins living nearby you could call? Any long-lost half-brothers? Is everyone in this family going to shoot me at some point?"

"Until one of us gets it right," Raylan replies. He can tell by looking at him that Boyd is going to make it through this just fine. He takes a step back and yanks the deer rifle out of Arlo's hands.

"It's what you get for sneaking up on an old man like that," Arlo says.

"Arlo, could you get us some towels?" Raylan shoos at his father, who goes- with calculated sloth- to find them.

Raylan kneels in front of Boyd.

"I'm sure he didn't mean it," Raylan says. "Or if he did, he meant it for me."

Boyd forces a grin. "Do you think he knew we were here? Did he shoot because we surprised him or because he was supposed to be guarding us?"

"I'll be sure and ask him…if he ever finds his way back here. Christ, did Ava move the towels? I could've woven some myself by now."

"Would you do that for me, Raylan?"

Raylan doesn't answer him. He leans back and shouts down the hall at Arlo.

"I'm coming," Arlo shouts back.

"You'd better be coming unarmed!"

"When am I ever unarmed?"

"Shit," Raylan growls. He says to Boyd, "I need to go check on that. Don't run off now."

Boyd nods. As Raylan disappears down the hall, he manages to drag himself to the sofa and pull the pillow Devil had been sleeping down to the floor. He pulls the pillow case off with his teeth and begins to wrap it around his wounded arm.

The sound of the sheriff's cruiser coming up on the house gets closer and eventually overcomes Raylan and Arlo's catfight. When the sheriff and the officers reach the porch, Raylan shouts, "we're good" to them, and they enter to find Boyd still on the floor.

"Don't look too good," the deputy says.

"From Raylan's point of view, I'm sure it looks very good," Boyd tells him.

"You call an EMT?" Raylan asks the sheriff as he returns to the room with towels. Arlo comes along behind him, still looking annoyed.

The sheriff nods. "So, what's the story?"

"He shot me," Boyd says, nodding to Arlo.

Arlo leans back against the wall. "I shot him."

"That would only the most recent in a chain of events," Raylan says. "Can you give Art Mullen a call up in Lexington? Tell him Boyd and myself have been found…alive. Tell him Ava Crowder and Devil Ellis are unaccounted for."

"Devil's in Lexington," the sheriff tells him. "Deputy Marshall had me bring him in and then took him up there this morning."

"Well, just Ava then," Raylan says. "And a fellow named Roland Grey, possibly a second accomplice."

"Accomplice to whom?"Boyd asks. "Raylan, I have to take exception to the idea that Ava had anything to do with this."

"I don't think we can rule it out at this point, Boyd," Raylan says. "I get the feeling that Arlo wasn't the criminal mastermind behind this, and Devil…I don't think I've ever used his name and the word 'mind' in the same sentence before."

"Don't underestimate Devil," Boyd says, and then adds, "I mean that in a good way. Not like Devil was behind this."

"Devil ain't behind shit except chapping my ass," Arlo grumbles.

Raylan rolls her eyes and then nods to the sheriff. "Be sure to get that in your report. I'm sure it will prove to be vital in your investigation."


	9. Chapter 9

I do not own Justified or the Middlesboro, KY Walmart.

And- wow- the people of the Justified fandom are really sweet. Y'all have been very kind and generous with your comments. This is a very positive and fun place to be.

**Moonshine Blind- Nine**

Tim's phone chirps at him and begins to bounce its way across the front seat of the Blazer. He snatches it up. Art doesn't even bother with a, "hello".

He says, "Guess what?"

"Do I have to?" Tim asks. The taillights from Randi's car disappear around a corner ahead of him. She's driving too fast, which shouldn't surprise him, he figures.

Art says, "Well, I thought it would be fun, but I guess you're not in the mood. Raylan just called. He's alive, he's with Boyd, and his father is on his way to jail."

"So the order of the universe has been restored?"

"The order of Harlan, anyway. Maybe a meth lab will blow up yet this evening. That ought to about put things right. Seems Arlo Givens is on his way to jail for shooting Boyd because they startled him. So we still don't know who kidnapped them, or what for. That's one for the Counties at this point. So, you're job now is…"

"…prevent Raylan from striking out on his own?"

On the other end of the line, Tim can hear Art pouring himself a drink. He takes a sip and says to Tim, "Yeah, sorry about that. Cut Devil loose, too. He's got an alibi."

"We're his alibi." Tim can't hope to disguise the disappointment in his voice.

Art ignores him. "Get Raylan stowed away and drag him back up here. It sounds like they were drugged- him and Crowder. Tell Raylan he needs a medical, and while you're arguing with him about that, let Randi have a go with Boyd."

"She'll be delighted."

"Who wouldn't be? Keep an eye out, Tim. No one's seen Ava Crowder yet. For all we know she's hiding behind a shed with a bead on everyone who comes up that driveway."

"That's my job," Tim says.

Art hangs up, and Tim calls Randi's number. She answers on the third ring.

"Almost didn't pick up. I'm one of those people who's suspicious of private callers."

"They found Raylan and Boyd. They're at Raylan's father's house, where Devil's been staying. He's in the clear, it looks like. You ready to meet Boyd and Raylan?"

"Are we concerned about Raylan too?"

"At this point, I'm beyond being concerned," Tim tells her. "But someone should be concerned about him. Just so he feels loved and all."

"Raylan sounds a lot like Boyd."

Tim scowls at Randi's taillights. She's slowed down to talk to him. "I'd never thought of that. See if you can get him to admit it. I'll bet you ten bucks you can't."

"Ten bucks? Shit, dude, let's make it interesting at least."

"What do you want- sexual favors?"

"From you? Been there, done that. What else you got?"

Tim catches himself smiling. "How about if I win, I get to use the handcuffs."

"On me or Danny?"

Tim hears Devil say, "Huh?" in the background. It sours his mood again, being reminded that Devil's there.

"You think of something," he tells her, "by the time we get to the house, and then it's on."

He disconnects before she can answer and tosses his phone back into the seat beside him. He turns the radio on and fiddles with the stations until he lands on some Delbert McClinton that he can tolerate.

They've reached the Harlan County line and the moon is coming up. A full moon over Harlan- that can't be good, he thinks. Whatever the case, it's better than being at home in his bed.

* * *

><p>Ava Crowder is almost out of gas. The tank was full when she left the house because she drove around in the hills for an hour before she decided on the Middlesboro Walmart as opposed to the one in Harlan. Then she drove around Middlesboro for a half hour building up the nerve and looking for a secluded spot with a restroom.<p>

She chose the county library. No one there in the middle of the morning but the librarian who has never seen Ava before. Ava is not much of a reader.

She puts on a show for the librarian and pretends to read a magazine for five minutes before going to the restroom. This drill calls to mind all the times she peed on a stick as a teenager, hiding it from her mom, waiting in anguish for the results, always feeling strangely empty and disappointed when the test came up negative. Not that she wanted to be pregnant as a teenager; she was just always afraid that it meant something. For as many times as she's missed a period, but never wound up pregnant, and then there was the one with Bowman that she lost it. She doesn't want a baby with Boyd either- not right now- but she wants to know that it's possible. Thinking it might not be makes her feel like less feminine, less real.

When she gets two lines, her first reaction is to tap the stick on the toilet paper holder in an attempt to make them go away. Maybe the test is wrong, she thinks, although she knows better. That second line is too dark and came up to quickly. She's knocked up. At least she can take some amount of pride in knowing her math was right.

Ava wraps the test in about 90 layers of toilet paper and stuffs it in the feminine waste container. She sits on the toilet seat and stares at the graffiti on the toilet paper dispenser.

"Men are so inferior to woman spiritually," it reads in one handwriting.

"Yes, but spiritual woman don't write on toilet paper holders," another replies.

Any other day, that would elicit at least a smirk from Ava. Today, all it gets is a sigh. She imagines the first writer to be some other pregnant and frustrated girl, undoubtedly biding her time before returning home to her spiritually misguided man. Ava wants to punch the second writer in the gut. Who is she to judge?

Instead, Ava kicks the stall door and then regrets it because she's sure the librarian must have heard. She stands up, opens the door, and washes her hands. She exits the library in a hurry. The librarian looks up and watches her go, but says nothing.

Ava reaches her Jeep and begins to dig in her purse for her keys. She looks up at the clock on the bank. She isn't ready to go home yet. She could go back to Walmart and get some groceries. She could go to the Walmart in Jonesville and kill a little more time.

Her heart stops for just a second when a voice behind her says, "Mrs. Crowder?"

Ava mumbles "shit" and turns around, smiling with gritted teeth.

"It is you," the other woman says. She's overly enthusiastic for being so near to a stranger. "I'm not sure we've ever formally met, but I remember you…"

"I know who you are," Ava says. She can't hope to fake enthusiasm right now.

"Well, good, then. I've never liked formal introductions. They seem so superficial. Do you have a minute?"

Just a moment ago, Ava had all the time in the world. She was praying for a diversion to keep her from having to go home and have this discussion with Boyd- or waiting for Arlo and Devil to finish with dinner and go the hell away before she and Boyd could have the discussion.

Carol Chandler from the Black Pike Company is not the diversion she wants, though. The last thing she wants right now is to have to talk about anything with this perfect, sleek, well-spoken woman who knows speaks ill of social graces and whose shoes probably cost more than Ava's Jeep.

Ava continues smiling.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, Mrs. Crowder," Carol says. "I shouldn't take that to mean I'm dead to the people of Harlan County, should I?"

"I just had something else on my mind is all," Ava tells her. "Ma'am, I'm really in kind of a hurry to get back."

Carol takes charge of the conversation before Ava can flee to safety inside her Jeep: "You look so tired, Mrs. Crowder. Why don't you have a cup of coffee with me before you drive all the way back?"

_I shouldn't be drinking coffee_, Ava thinks. _I need to knock off the caffeine._

Carol makes a bullshit attempt to cajole her: "I saw that. I saw a little pause there. Come on, just one cup of coffee."

Ava smiles. She feels ill, but whether it's morning sickness or Carol's perfect teeth bared at her from between Carol's perfectly lined lips, she can't be sure. She lets go of the door handle of her Jeep and winces more than nods at the invitation.

"Just one cup," she says. "Then I really have to go."


	10. Chapter 10

Justified is not mine at all.

**Moonshine Blind- Ten**

Two-thirds of the way through her cup of coffee and Ava has convinced herself that she must have this baby and she must raise it right, if for no other reason than to off-set the number of people like Carol in this world.

Carol is talking about West Virginia, but Ava can't stop thinking about "Invasion of the Body Snatchers". Carol is so superficial and hollow that every time she opens her mouth, Ava expects that shrill, soulless scream to come out. She's having a hard time following what Carol is saying, and she's certain that Carol is being obtuse on purpose.

For the sake of her own sanity, Ava interrupts: "So, what brings you back to the area, ma'am?"

Carol's shoulders stiffen every time Ava calls her ma'am. It is Ava's only defense at the moment- one of those social graces that Ava was raised to obey, but that Carol brushes off as silly. Anyone else, Ava would call ma'am and it would mean she respected them. When she calls Carol that, she enjoys little flash of insecurity she sees in Carol's eyes.

"Oh, just business really," Carol counters, implying that Ava could never understand. "With the Bennett assets all tied up in probate, that project is on hold. I come back periodically to check on the progress with that…of which there has been none. I suppose I could ask you- have you seen Dickie Bennett lately?"

Ava smirks. "Not since right before he shot me."

"Really? Dickie Bennett shot you? Where?"

Ava points to the scar beneath her sweater.

"Jesus Christ," Carol says. "I'd heard he was in prison, but that he'd escaped."

"That could make settling the probate difficult," Ava replied, not at all surprised how quickly Carol brushes aside Ava's injury and steers the conversation back to finding Dickie.

"Well, there's Doyle Bennett's beneficiaries. I can't seem to find them either. I had no idea such a small community could be so tight-lipped."

Ava shrugs. "I need to use the ladies room."

"I'll have them warm up your coffee."

Ava slides out of the booth and flees to the safety of the women's restroom. She stands for a moment in the open stall, contemplates vomiting, and then stands up again. She goes to the sink and looks at her reflection in the mirror, searching for the big fish hook she imagines is embedded in her cheek. Whatever the hell it is Carol wants and is working so hard to dance around, she has Ava on a line. Ava's too curious to just toss a couple of dollar on the table and say, "you have yourself a nice day."

Maybe it's Boyd's fascination with Carol that has her so perplexed. Ava couldn't have hidden her jealousy and mistrust of Boyd's working for Carol is she'd tried. People commented openly to her about it: "I'd never let a man of mine out of my sight with a woman like that…" and "If she isn't a pretty thing. I bet Boyd ain't never seen a woman like that so up close and personal before…"

Boyd had told her that Carol was pure evil and that his working for her was like a covert operation. Now Ava figures she has her shot at a little Special Ops work of her own. It's some slow going though. Maybe covert operations aren't her area of expertise. It bothers her that she can't quite put a finger on where her own expertise lies. She's getting too old to not be really good at something. Something besides cooking and shooting. And getting shot.

Ava slaps some water on her face, dries it with a paper towel and returns to the diner where Carol is waiting.

Her coffee cup is full once again. Ava chooses to look at it like a fresh start. She drinks it back down to the level it was at when she left.

"You haven't asked me about Boyd," she says to Carol.

"I'm not here to talk about Boyd."

"Then what are you here to talk about? I told you I had other things to do. I got clothes to put out on the line and a squirrel to butcher and a kitchen to be barefoot and pregnant in."

Carol cocks an eyebrow. "Do you now?"

"Isn't that what you think I do with my time? Hillbilly things? Make sure my man's overalls are patched and his shotgun's clean and shiny?"

"Well, what brought this on? I thought I was simply having coffee with a familiar face."

"Neither one of us is simple," Ava says. She downs the rest of her coffee and feels sick again. "If you'll excuse me, I have groceries in my car. My ice cream's melting."

Carol raises her hand to stop Ava when she attempts to pay for her coffee.

"You look pale, Mrs. Crowder. At least let me walk you to your car."

After that, Ava doesn't remember much.

* * *

><p>"What'd you decide?" Tim asks Randi. They've reached the Givens house and have paused on the porch to let Devil get ahead of them.<p>

"About what?"

"Are we betting or aren't we?"

"You know what I've always wanted?" Randi muses. "To go on a date like a normal human being."

"I don't think we can do that, or I can't. I can't go on a date with an intern."

"But you can handcuff me and…"

"I was kidding about that."

She rolls her eyes. "Hard to tell with you. Whatever. If I win, I'll take you out to dinner and military-themed movie. Or a cartoon. I bet you watch a lot of Pixar. If you win, we stay the course. Are we betting or not?"

She holds her hand out to shake. Tim takes it, but he frowns at her. She's already pulling away to follow Devil inside the house. Tim retracts his hand. His breathe is caught in his throat and suddenly he's angry at Randi. He doesn't want to go on a date- with her or anyone, and yet he does. He wants to just have a normal life where he feels normal and where normal things don't scare the hell out him the way being shot at should but doesn't.

He catches the screen door with his toe as it begins to swing shut and goes inside the house.

The rest of them are in the kitchen. Devil has already joined Raylan and Boyd in their bourbon-drinking.

"Boyd, this is Randi. Me and her went to high school in Fayetteville. I was buddies with her brother. Randi- Boyd."

Randi says in flat voice, "Oh, you're the delusional psychotic."

"What has Raylan Givens been telling you?" Boyd says, smiling at his bourbon.

"I haven't met her yet," Raylan says. "But I like her already."

Randi turns back to Tim and winks. He blinks back at her and wonders what defines a delusional psychotic and if Raylan also fits those criteria. He wonders if Randi has a label for him in her head too.

He already knows it, thanks to a VA doctor in Bamberg. The official diagnosis when he was discharged was, "you snipers are all weird as fuck", but it came with the suggestion that he was at high risk for post traumatic stress disorder and co-occurring substance abuse. He was advised to seek support for that when he returned to the States. Tim sought the support of Grand Theft Auto and the fine products of the Amheuser Busch Company. He'd thought he was doing fine with it until Art started ragging on him about it.

The trouble with Art ragging is that Tim respects Art and can't just blow him off. More than that, he's fascinated by him. Art is old- old as hell in Tim's world, and Tim can't imagine being old. He could sit for hours and marvel at Art's oldness and all the things that go with it- a wife, kids, a mortgage, an English sports car in the garage with the engine torn to pieces. He wants to make the leap from Grand Theft Auto and beer to what Art has, but he doesn't know the steps in between. Marshall's Service Policies be damned- Tim does know that Art would go on the date.

"Tim?" Raylan says.

Tim cocks his head. Raylan is looking up at him, offering him a coffee mug of bourbon.

Tim takes it from him and grips it tight.

Raylan asks, "No one's heard anything from Ava?"

"Tried calling her," Tim tells him. "From Ellis' phone and the office. No answer. Last time anyone saw her was this morning."

"She made eggs," Devil adds.

Boyd asks him. "Then where'd she go to?"

"Don't know. I went into town looking for you, got pulled over, got my tail light busted, and got a free trip up to Lexington with this one."

Tim raises his drink to concur that he is the "one" in question.

"That ain't like Ava," Boyd says.

Raylan nods in agreement, which Randi finds amusing. Raylan looks confused. To divert her attention, brushes his jeans off and stands up.

"Well, since me and Deputy Gutterson haven't yet been shot, I think we ought to start looking. Miss McKittrick, you know Devil's pattern of behavior well enough, it sounds like. Do you think you can babysit?"

"No," Tim answers before Randi can speak. She glares at him. "You've been poisoned, Raylan, but an unknown substance…"

"No, actually we know what it was."

"You've been poisoned by a known substance then. You've still been poisoned. You need medical attention before going back into the field. Art's orders. Over half the people in this room need medical attention."

"I feel alright," Devil says and shrugs.

Tim wants to throw his cup at Devil's head, but he resists.

"The County gets to look for Ava. Raylan gets to ride with me back up to Lexington. Randi goes home, and you two…"

Devil looks at Tim expectantly. Boyd gets up from his chair without waiting for Tim to finish.

"Come on, Devil. The sooner they're on their way, the sooner we can get to actually doing something about something."

"…and I could give a fuck what you two do next," Tim finishes in a more quiet voice because Boyd isn't listening anyway. Devil grins at him and claps Tim on the shoulder as he passes by on his way to follow Boyd. He seems to appreciate Tim's attempt to take charge, even if he has no intention of doing what Tim says.

"'Art says'?" Raylan mocks him. "That all you got?"

"Still got my weapon. Where's yours?"

Raylan mumbles, "Christ…" and raises his hands in mock surrender. He stomps out of the kitchen in the direction of the door. Tim turns to Randi.

"Well, Boyd went that way and Raylan went the other. I win."

"It's a long ride back to Lexington. I say he rides with me."

Tim scowls. "Well, then you could just lie to me. How am I going to know if he really admitted it?"

"Jesus, is it really that important? Then you'll just have to have faith, Gutterson. Christ, it's a bet. It's not life or death."

Her nostrils flair. She's frustrated with him, and he wishes he hadn't put up such a fuss. The wrong things- he always pitches a fit over the ones that don't really matter.

The sound of a car door slamming and an engine turning over makes them both quit glaring and turn towards the door. Tim steps around Randi and bolts to the porch.

"Boyd and Devil take off?" She calls after him.

"Fuck, no," He says. "That was Raylan. And the Blazer that's signed out in my name."


	11. Chapter 11

I do not own Justified, and I haven't been to Kentucky since 1984.

**Moonshine Blind- Eleven**

Tim meets Randi in the hall.

"Give me your keys," he says.

Her answer would be the same if he'd said, "eat this ice cream" or "roll me a joint, woman". She isn't military-minded. She doesn't take direction.

It comes out as a squeak: "Fuck off."

"Now," Tim says. "I have to go after him. He was drugged. It's probably still in his system, and now he's had a couple of shots with it. Plus, he's just dumb where Ava and Boyd are concerned."

"What's his thing with Ava? He and Boyd share a brain and a woman?"

"They trade back and forth."

"Ew. Here, but I'm going with you." She digs her keys out of her pocket and holds them out to him.

Tim makes sure he has them in his grasp before he tells her, "No, you're not. Stay here. Stay low. Keep the lights out. If anyone comes to the door, don't answer it. Call me first."

He's out the door before she can argue. He hears her shouting out for him to go straight to hell, but he doesn't reply. His phone is on and he's calling Harlan County with one hand and yanking open the door to Randi's Corolla with the other. It crosses his mind that he's left her without any kind of weapon, not that she'd know how to use a gun if she had one.

Maybe she'll do what he told her and just keep her head down. Or maybe Devil and Boyd will come back.

Christ, he's counting on Devil and Boyd as back-up. Tim pushes the thought out of his mind and lets the e-break down. He looks back up at the house as the car begins to roll backwards towards the main road. He doesn't see Randi on the porch or glaring at him through a window. He takes that as a good sign.

* * *

><p>"Tell me everything," he'd said.<p>

Devil hates that. When Boyd says, "tell me everything" it's like instant information overload. Tell him everything beginning when? Should he start with the Big Bang or when dinosaurs roamed the earth? Does Boyd even believe in dinosaurs anymore? So much about him seems to be up in the air since his miraculous conversion.

Devil rubs the bridge of his nose. "From this morning? I woke up when she yelled at me for breakfast. She was looking out the window for you. Arlo was off doing whatever he does. She made breakfast. Said you hadn't come home. She didn't act upset, but she kept looking out the window."

"When was this?"

"About seven-thirty. When I got out of the shower, she was gone. Never said where she was going, but I ain't her mama. I figured she was mad at you and went to blow off steam to one of her girlfriends about it."

"Then what?"

"Then I went into Cumberland because you never came back with the beer," Devil says. "I figured I'd skip the VFW because they always act like I'm…I don't know…they look at me funny. I figured I'd kill two birds with one stone if I went straight to Cumberland- get the beer and ask Johnny where you'd got off to."

Boyd nods like that makes sense, which is a relief to Devil. He's used to telling people what to do, but not to having to think up the reasons why they should do it. Boyd's making him retrace his steps makes him nervous. He wonders how many missteps Boyd sees.

Boyd asks, "What'd Johnny say?"

"Never made it. Got pulled over before I got to Cumberland. Driving 53 goddamned miles an hour. That little prick of a sheriff's deputy kicked out my tail light and invented himself a cause to search the car. Hauled me in and that deputy buddy of Raylan's came to pick me up."

"And they came looking for you because you and their intern knew each other in high school?"

Devil leans forward and rummages in the glove compartment for a straw to chew on, hoping to buy himself a little time. He doesn't want to tell Boyd that he went looking for Randi the night before- that he actually talked to her and she's party to everything he knows.

_Goddamn that woman. Goddamn women in general_. If it weren't for Ava and Randi, he could be sitting back at Arlo's on the flowery sofa, drinking beer, cleaning guns, and watching Letterman.

He finds a coffee stirrer, sticks it in his mouth, and speaks around it to Boyd.

"I went up and had a visit with her last night. She'd already made me- they brung her down yesterday afternoon. I went up to see if to find out what she was doing here."

Boyd furrows his brow at the road ahead.

"I guess I don't need to ask why you didn't just kill her once you came to possess that information."

"Her brother was a buddy of mine," Devil says through his straw, knowing it isn't any kind of answer.

"I suppose I'm the last person should be talking about letting a woman cloud your vision."

"I'd suppose." Devil shrugs.

Boyd flickers the headlights at an oncoming car with its brights on. The driver pays him no mind. Out of habit, he raises his middle finger to the other driver as the car passes. He and Devil both stare and turn slowly as the other vehicle goes by.

"Was that…?" Devil asks. Before he can finish, Boyd slams on the breaks, stalls the truck, and has to start it again before wheeling around to follow the other car.

"That was Ava's Jeep," Boyd says. He's shifting through gears like a madman, and the truck isn't going willingly. It shudders every time, and twice he has to downshift and wait for it to pick up momentum.

"That wasn't her driving," Devil says. "Who the fuck was that?"

"Roland Grey," Boyd says.

"Who the hell is Roland Grey?"

"Thinks he's a marine biologist," Boyd tells him.

He puts it in third and bears down on the gas. It takes almost no time for them to catch up to the Jeep. Boyd figures Ava never got around to getting that fuel filter changed in the Jeep like he told to a hundred and fifty times. Seems women always make out better when they don't do what they're told.

* * *

><p>A knock on the door makes Randi jump. She's sitting in Arlo Givens' dark kitchen, drinking the bourbon that Raylan left behind. She's starting to get why Tim is the way he is. There's never any down time. Never a moment to think before the event springs into action. Cortisol levels never drop back down to normal. Amped up has become the new normal.<p>

A second knock.

She picks up her phone and starts scrolling for Tim's number. Before she reaches it, she hears the door open. She looks around. She doesn't even know where to hide. The light coming off the face of her phone seems to light up the whole room. She stuffs it in her shirt to hide its glare, but it's too late.

The kitchen light comes on above her.

Randi turns around in her chair and stands up.

"Please, don't get up. Oh, well," the woman standing in the doorway says. "Then sit back down."

"Who are you?" Randi asks.

"I should ask you the same question."

"Are you Ava?"

The woman smiles and Randi doesn't need her to answer. Boyd and Raylan are both crazy as shithouse rats- it took about seven seconds for Randi to make that determination. They are also, however, down-to-earth men. Neither one of them could possibly feel a thing to for this plasticine Corporate Head-Hunter Barbie that stands before her.

"Who are you?" The woman asks again.

"I'm a friend of Devil's," Randi tells her.

"Devil's?"

"Yeah, Devil. Danny. He told me to wait here. He went to town for some beer. He's on his way back."

"He told you to wait in the dark?"

Randi bats her eyelashes. "That's the kind of friends we are."

"I see," the woman says. "Well, I'm a friend of Boyd's and Ava's. I'm storing a few things in the basement. I just wanted to come by and check on them."

Randi gives the woman a dumb nod and otherwise doesn't react.

"I don't really know my way around. Otherwise, I'd show you," she says. "What'd you say your name was again?"

"I didn't. I'm Carol. And you are...?"

"Devil's friend…friend of the Devil…Randi."

"Randi," Carol echoes. She mumbles, "how quaint," and turns away to dig in her purse. It takes her a moment in the dim light of the hall to find what she's looking for, just long enough for Randi to figure out that's she looking for a gun.

Carol is confident enough to say, "Ah," to herself when she finds it, and too confident to take a protective step back before she turns around. She's met with a bourbon bottle to the face that sends her and the gun tumbling.

Randi watches the gun slide out of sight down the hall and decides to let it go. She picks up the chair she'd been sitting in and throws that at Carol too. Then she darts past Carol's cursing and confused body and out the door. From the porch, she sees Carol's car- which she deems to be not far enough away, a small shed- which is probably full of snakes this time of year, a tree she can't climb fast enough, and a low stone wall at the edge of the yard. She bolts for the wall. It's low enough for her to hop over easily. She crouches down on the opposite side, catches her breath, and begins to make her way closer to the main road.

* * *

><p>Raylan is hardly in the mood to preside over a traffic stop but the two cars in the westbound lane are coming at him awful fast. And the first one won't turn its damned brights off.<p>

He flickers his lights in irritation. The first car- or maybe it's a truck- doesn't dim his lights. The second vehicle- now he can see that one is a truck- is flickering its lights back at him.

Raylan slams on his brakes and yanks the steering wheel hard to the left. The brakes squeal and the Blazer turns almost 90 degrees, partially blocking both lanes, and catching the fender of the first vehicle before it can swerve into the other lane.

The fucking airbag deploys itself and for a moment Raylan is too stunned by the hit and the cloud of powder to move. He stumbles out of the Blazer, feeling for his sidearm and then remembering he doesn't have it. Raylan groans to himself. He's certain Tim has the back stocked with everything an anal retentive, ex-Boy Scout, ex- Ranger sniper's little heart could possibly desire. None of that is going to include Raylan's preferred nine millimeter. He'd rather just find a big rock to throw.

Boyd's voice jars him alert.

"Raylan, you alright?"

"Got my nose powdered. Tell me that's not Ava I just hit."

"It's her Jeep, but not her driving."

"Where's Devil?"

"Here." Devil, perpetually armed and dangerous, is already at the Jeep with a .410 pointed at the passenger side window. "She's here. She's in the back on the floor. Your marine biologist- looks like he ate the pavement, though."

Boyd and Raylan run to the Jeep. Raylan stops at Roland Grey's body. He motions to Devil that's it okay to lower his shotgun and turns Roland's body over with his foot.

Boyd pushes Devil aside and opens the back door of the Jeep.

"Ava- baby, you alright?"

Her voice is soft and weak, but still mad as hell. "I can't see. What'd that bitch do to me? I can't see, and my stomach…God, it hurts…"

"It's okay, baby," Boyd tells her. "It goes away. Me and Raylan- it was just overnight. We're okay now. You'll be okay."

"I don't know, Boyd." Her voice begins to quiver. "My stomach hurts so bad. I don't think it's going to be okay."

"Yeah, it gave me a hell of a headache," he whispers, helping her sit up. "Just puke it all up. By tomorrow morning, you'll feel fine."

"She alright?" Devil shouts. He's joined Raylan standing over Roland Grey's body.

"Yeah," Boyd calls back. "Damnit, how're we going to get back to the house? Devil, you got a knife can rip the air bag out of Raylan's truck?"

"Leave the truck alone, miscreants. I'll stay here and wait for the County. The rest of you are going to have to pack into a Toyota."

He waves at the oncoming headlights. He knows it's Tim. No way Tim wouldn't have followed him. He almost can't contain his smile when Tim gets out of Randi's car and mutters, "Oh, thank God for airbags," at him.

"Yeah," Raylan says. "I'm just glad it's signed out in your name."


	12. Chapter 12

I do not own Justified.

**Moonshine Blind- Twelve**

Randi slides down against the stone wall when she hears Carol's car start up. The beam from the headlights skims the top of the wall and the call passes by. It turns south at the mouth of the driveway, the opposite direction that Tim went with her Corolla.

She waits until she can no longer hear the motor and then stands up. She looks to the house, but hesitates. She's almost sure Carol was alone, but it's only an assumption. The driver could have been Carol, or not. Someone could have been left behind. Instead of going back to the house, Randi follows the wall to the main road and sits down to wait for someone to return.

The moon is full and she can see the fields that lead up to the wooded hills where the road disappears. It reminds her of the Ozarks and drinking in the park with her brother and Danny Ellis.

Danny was all about mixing drinks. Richie called him a fruit, said that a real man would just drink beer. Sometimes he came up with something good though. He and Randi would go back and forth thinking up ridiculous names for the drinks, getting more outlandish and usually dirtier the drunker they got. Danny should have been a bartender.

He once made a drink out of bourbon and grenadine and God-knows-what-else. He knew she hated orange juice and wouldn't drink screwdrivers, so if he was trying to impress her he left out the juice. This one was okay. It had a kick to it, even beyond the cheap bourdon, that she couldn't identify. She accused him of using engine coolant.

"Nah," he'd said. "That shit'll eat your kidneys. You know that. 'Sides, coolant's green. This shit's red-"

He splashed some at her from out of the Pepsi bottle he was transporting it in. She'd squeaked, cussed him out, and then looked around for Richie who had passed out in the cab of the truck.

Devil continued, "Color of your hair, about. I think I'll call this one a Renata Rose 'cause it starts out all sweet and then it knocks you on your ass."

She'd laughed and then realized that he wasn't being crass at all. It was the first time she'd ever been made aware that she'd blown a boy over like that, and it scared her that it was him.

As she remembered, she took another drink and made out with him until Richie woke up and poured beer on them. After that, she began pulling away from Danny Ellis.

Headlights coming from the north cut across the field and startle her. She gets ready to run, but recognizes the south of her own Toyota. It always sounds like a lawn mower compared to the big old trucks these hill people drive.

She stands up and walks to the mouth of the driveway. She waves and squints. Tim is driving. Devil is riding shotgun, and Boyd is in the back with a woman.

The car pulls up beside Randi and Devil rolls the window down.

"Nice night for a walk. The fuck are you doing?" He asks.

"A woman came in. She's gone now, I think. Someone drove away, but I don't know if there's anyone left in the house. She had a gun."

"Stay here," Tim says and puts the car in gear again.

Randi opens her mouth to protest and smacks the windshield with her open palm. Devil opens his door before Tim can take off.

"Get in here," he says. She squeezes in on his lap, and he says, "Just like high school."

"No one ever pulled a gun on us in high school, Danny."

"Speak for yourself," he says, and that's all she needs to know to be sure that they parted ways a long, long time ago.

* * *

><p>"It's clear," Tim says to Boyd when he meets him in the doorway back at the front porch. "Where's Boy Wonder?"<p>

Devil comes around from the back of the house. Boyd nods in his direction.

"She ought to go to the hospital," Boyd says, referring to Ava.

"I'm not going to any hospital," She says. You drank the same thing, and you're fine now. It's already wearing off. I can see the moon."

"You said your stomach hurt. My stomach never hurt. Maybe something else is wrong. Maybe you got more than I did."

Ava shakes her head. She looks at Randi, who is sitting next to her on the front steps of Arlo's house.

"She just needs to lay down," Randi says to Boyd.

"Are you a doctor?" He snaps.

"Are you?"

Devil snorts.

Boyd shakes his head and offers Ava his hand. "Come on then. Let's get you upstairs. Am I going to be going to jail over this?"

"Why would you?" Tim says. "We might need you for questioning, but since you and Raylan are chummy…"

Boyd grins at that. He helps Ava up and walks her inside with his arm around her waist. She looks back at Randi. Randi nods at her.

Tim says, "Randi, why don't you start on back? I'll catch a ride with Raylan. We might be down here for a while. Sounds like the woman you met was Carol Chandler. I'd guess she has the resources to be long-gone by now. We can take your statement in the morning."

"Trying to ditch me, aren't you?" Randi says, smiling at him. She stands up, though- for once, not arguing with him.

She says, "Take it easy, Danny," to Devil who replies by punching her on the arm on his way into the house.

Tim frowns at them and shakes his head. He almost wishes Devil would kiss her or something just to give him a reason to throw up his hands and be done with her.

* * *

><p>Raylan and Randi sit across the conference room table from each other. They can barely keep their heads up. Randi has described Carol to him, and he's told her it was same woman who drugged Ava.<p>

"Is Ava going to be alright?" Randi asks Raylan.

"Seems like it. Boyd and I are fine. She'll sleep it off, I'd imagine."

He detects a look in her eyes that is strange, but he doesn't know her well enough to place the emotion. He hasn't answered her question about Ava, but she isn't going to dig for more information either. He decides to leave it alone. He changes the subject.

"So, you met Boyd. You've read his file. What the hell is his problem, in your professional opinion?"

She smiles, again like she's withholding something. He could let it go once, but twice makes it annoying.

"He's got some nice tattoos. Sure got Danny…Devil…roped in," she says, "There's a small, pretty new body of research that says that people with liberal ideologies score higher on IQ tests than conservatives. Racists score low because they're less intelligent and they like simple answers. They like being given an ideology to follow."

Raylan smirks.

"So, are you saying Boyd is stupid?"

"Not at all, actually. Boyd's sharp as a tack. If you go by that line of research, Boyd isn't really a raging bigot or a zealot or any of those things. I couldn't tell you what Boyd really believes but I think these little movements he creates are more for the benefits of his followers."

"Like Devil."

"Like Danny, yeah. He's been floating for as long as I've known him. He's decided to swear loyalty to Boyd and so he's willing to ignore that Boyd's ideology keeps changing. I'd actually be impressed if Danny had it in him to tell Boyd to suck it and that he's going back to being a skinhead. I wouldn't be proud to know him, mind you, but right now he's…it's like he's lost his identity to Boyd."

Raylan stretches. "Well, I hate to tell you, Miss McKittick, but the fact that Devil is stupid and dangerous and dangerously stupid is hardly news to me."

"If it makes you feel any better, UK is paying me for this, not the Marshall's office. Danny's not really that stupid as much as he thinks he's stupid. He's so impressionable that he develops his own delusions based on someone else's psychotic delusions."

"And you're saying Boyd is delusional?"

"Wouldn't you say he is?"

"Well, I never heard him talk about seeing elves or the like." Raylan grins when he says it. He likes the image of Boyd commanding an army of racist elves out in the woods. Boyd and a bunch of short guys with pointy ears…Raylan needs some sleep or he's going to die.

Randi continues, "but he believes he's being persecuted."

"He _is_ being persecuted- by me."

"Yeah, but you persecute lots of people, Raylan- no offense."

Raylan grins and tips his hat. "None taken."

"Boyd thinks he's special. He thinks he's being persecuted more than everyone else."

"Well, he does take up an inordinate amount of my time."

"Would you say he tends to pop up and start raising Cain at times when you're particularly busy with other things?"

"You think Boyd is doing this for attention?"

"I think Boyd doesn't know what to do with himself if he doesn't have your attention. Attention from you confirms his delusions. If you're not chasing him around the hills, he might have to accept the fact that he's delusional."

"What about the religious conversion?"

"Psychotic episode. He got over it, didn't he? It's not uncommon for people under extreme stress, especially people with existing psychotic issues, to have a psychotic break at some point. It can be pretty short-lived like Boyd's was. Then they just go back to their regularly scheduled delusions."

"So, any recommendations?"

"Art said we weren't here to treat them, just catch them. According to the big books, the prognosis is good for a guy like Danny, so long as he cuts ties with Boyd."

"And our problem there is that the best ways to cut Boyd's apron string is to put him in prison," Raylan says. "And we never seem to be able to keep him locked up long enough or far enough away for that to happen."

"You need federal charges," Randi says. "Send him to Leavenworth."

Raylan raises an eyebrow. "Leavenworth? That'd about do the trick. You said it yourself, though. Boyd's slick. He seems to know how to wiggle free of the feds and keep his business affairs safely in the jurisdiction of this office."

"Well, maybe he just knows where he's wanted."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Raylan scowls at her.

"What would you do without Boyd, Raylan?"

"Right now, if it weren't for Boyd, I'd be well-rested enough to let you have it for suggesting…I think you're suggesting…that I enjoy being a pawn in Boyd's little circus of delusion."

"You said it, not me, man."

"I said nothing of the sort. We're done. Go home. I'm going home. Let's be sure we head in opposite directions."

"I think we're already well on our way," Randi says. She stands up, nods to Raylan and goes out into the main office. She taps Tim's desk as she walks by. He's looking through his file cabinet for something, but he spins around in his chair when he hears her. When he sees her, he leans back and stretches his arms.

"I'm going to get some sleep," she tells him.

"Who owes who dinner?" He asks.

"Might be a draw," she says. "I'll tell you later. I'd like to out of Raylan's potential line of fire and quickly. How about seven?"

"Seven," he says.

"What's at seven?" Rachel asks him, without looking up from her computer, when Randi is gone.

"Nothing," Tim says.

"Nothing? Well, I think it's nice. It's good for you. You can only get so good at Grand Theft Auto or watch so much porn."

Tim wads up a piece of scratch paper and throws it at her.

"What do you know about porn?"

"I don't know a thing about porn," she says and wings the paper ball back at him. "I just know types. You fit a profile, Deputy Gutterson- the profile of a man who values his relationship with pornography."

"The human body is a beautiful thing," Tim tells her. That gets a grin.

"The real, live human body is even better," she says. "Or so I hear."

"Except it argues with you, makes you neglect your video games, wants to talk about its feelings."

"Uh oh. Not that. What are you going to do when she finds out you don't have any?"

"I have feelings," Tim says. "A startling array of them."

Rachel turns towards him and cocks her eyebrow.

"Don't you start, too," he says to her, turning his chair and his attention back to his file cabinet. "I count on you, you know, to not want to talk about feelings."


	13. Chapter 13

I do not own Justified.

**Moonshine Blind- Thirteen**

Seven o'clock comes and goes and Tim keeps driving around Lexington. To avoid thinking about avoiding Randi, he starts thinking about what Art had said- that he drinks too much and for all the wrong reasons. Thinking about that makes him think about how bad he wants a drink. He tells the imaginary Art sitting on his shoulder that he'll just have one…or two…while he thinks up what he's going to tell the girl. Otherwise, the guy who is never late has no words to explain why he's late for dinner.

Then nine o'clock comes and goes and by midnight, he smells too much like Grain Belt to dare show up on her doorstep. He decides a shower is in order. Maybe a game of GTA to steady his nerves.

He antes up to the waitress, promises to drive carefully, and heads out to his truck. The moon is full, just like the night before, and so bright he doesn't even need headlights. Maybe that's why he doesn't turn them on. He makes it to the 'burbs, within blocks of the duplex where he lives, before Lexington PD notices and turns on the red-and-whites.

Instead of showing the officer his license, Tim offers him his badge. The officer barely looks at it.

"Son, tell me you're not on your way to the scene of something."

He doesn't wait for an answer. He steps back and asks Tim to step out of his truck. They go through the whole routine- turn and face the truck, hands above your head, are you carrying a weapon. He tells the officer that his side arm is in the truck, but he has his secondary on him. He tells him he has a license for that.

"I figured," the officer says. He pats his way down Tim's leg and removes the pistol. He tells Tim to turn around. "You want to go through the whole dog-and-pony act, son, or just the breathalyzer?"

Tim asks to call Art Mullin.

"You don't need a lawyer yet," the officer tells him. "You haven't been charged with anything. I have a feeling you will be, but no need to hurry."

"He's my boss."

"Son, in your position, last person I'd be calling was my boss. Blow."

Tim blows a .17. The officer tells him he can call his lawyer now and rambles through his rights. Tim declines the lawyer. He lets the office guide him into the back of the squad car.

Tim ponders- as well as he's able- calling Art. He imagines Art mumbling something about does Tim being so thorough, does he think he needs to experience the job from every angle. He knows Art won't bail him. He's fairly sure he'll be put on administrative leave. There's no sense in calling Art tonight. His fate there is certain.

"When can I go?" He asks the officer.

"As soon as you're sobered up. We'll impound your truck. Get a couple of hours sleep and we'll give you a date to appear and turn you loose."

Tim lays his head against the back of the seat and stares up at the streetlights until he feels sick. He's tired. It takes about this much, on a given night, to get him to sleep. Now, like a trained fuckin' monkey, he's ready to doze off to the murky place where the dreams can't catch him.

"You still awake, son?" The officer calls to him. "'Cause I'm an old man. I ain't carrying you into the station."

Tim mumbles that he doesn't require much sleep since the Rangers, and then he goes under, dead to the world.

* * *

><p>Tim is waiting at his desk the next morning when Art comes in at eight.<p>

"Can I speak to you?"

"You can," Art says. "I should warn you that I already have a good idea what you want to speak to me about. How about we skip it and just move on along to what I have to do about it?"

Tim nods. He follows Art into his office and shuts the door. Art keeps talking while he takes his jacket off.

"I need your badge and your weapon. You'll be on administrative leave until…when's your court date?"

"Next week."

"Well, until then, and then it will depend on sentencing. Since this is your first, you won't have to sit any time. We will have to talk about you participating in some kind of program. There will be an evaluation. The date of your reinstatement will be dependent on the recommendations from that."

Tim nods. "Am I getting transferred?"

"Nope. Your penance is staying here with us. I'd like to assign you some time to talk with the psych intern, but- oh- you're sleeping with her."

Tim looks at Art's desk.

He says, "I don't think I am anymore."

"Ah, blew that all to hell, too, did you?" Art replies. "All I can say, Tim, is that you had better take full advantage of whatever rehab, talk-therapy, electro-shock therapy, petting-puppy-dogs-therapy they offer you. Otherwise, you're going to find yourself on the fast track to the private sector."

"Yes, sir."

"Knock it off. And quit ducking your head like a six-year old. We both know that- right now- the only reason you're sorry now is that you got caught. You have any questions?"

Tim shakes his head.

"Okay, go on home then. I'll see you next week. I'll sit with you at your court date. Maybe I'll make you look good."

Tim asks him, "Could I pull some desk duty till then?"

"Do you remember the last time I assigned Raylan desk duty? I seem to remember it was you who dragged him out of here. I get the feeling you don't quite respect the concept of desk duty. Go home."

Tim says, "yes, sir" again and then is up and out of there before Art can chastise him for it.

He goes to the elevator and waits. When the doors open, he finds himself standing face-to-face with Randi.

"I'll be gone all week," he says.

She brushes past him. "I'm going to ask to be transferred. I should be gone when you get back."

She keeps walking, but he says to her anyway, "I got really drunk."

"You want to know what I did?" She wheels around to look at him, but keeps walking backward towards the Marshall's office door. "I read a book about skinheads and painted my toenails. They're very pretty."

He can't stop himself. "Skinheads or your toenails?"

She shakes her head at him and turns around. Tim watches through the glass as she walks straight up to Art's office door. She's doesn't need any more time to think about that transfer. She's had all night to think.

Tim turns back to the elevator to find Raylan standing there, holding the door and smirking from underneath his hat.

"Thought you said you never missed," Raylan says.

"I'm going home," Tim tells him. "You're going to have to find someone else to play your secretary for a week."

"I guess I can't ask the intern."

"Ask her whatever you want. Can I get on the elevator?"

Rather than stepping out in to the hall, Raylan backs into the elevator. He continues to hold the door with his foot until Tim gets on with him. Then, he lets the door shut and hits the button for the parking garage.

"I'm not asking the intern shit," Raylan says, looking up at the ceiling. "I've heard plenty out of her. She thinks I'm just like Boyd."

"You are just like Boyd. I bet her she couldn't make you say it. Did she make you say it or did she tell you."

"Nope, her. She didn't say it outright, but she said as much. That mean you won the bet?"

Tim rolls his eyes. "Yeah, I'm the winner."

"Got me to thinking though…"

"Dear God, no."

"I'm going to beat your ass when we get to garage, you little punk. Don't think I can't… No, it got me thinking that maybe we all have an alter-ego in this. Like Boyd is me, except in Harlan."

"That's deep, Raylan. No today, alright? My head hurts." There is silence for a moment, and then he can't resist asking, "Shouldn't Art be Boyd?"

Raylan shakes his head. "I haven't figured that out yet. I figured you out though. Should've known it all along. I knew that irascible spirit of yours was familiar to me somehow."

Tim silently thanks God when the elevator stops and the doors open.

"Who? Devil?" He asks.

"No, fortunately for us, Devil has no equal. No, you're Arlo."

"When'd you ever see me beat anybody up?" Tim snaps at him, and then feels back about it.

Raylan doesn't miss a beat. "You never get there. You always shoot 'em first. If you ever missed, you'd be beating people's asses all over the place. Or blowing your own head off."

Raylan gestures to the door and ushers Tim out.

"I'm probably the only person who's ever said this to you, Raylan," Tim says and gets off the elevator, "but don't quit your day job."

"You neither," Raylan says. "See you next week."

The elevator doors slide closed, and Tim is alone in the garage.

* * *

><p>an:

I have a funny habit of writing thirteen chapter stories and avoiding closure. Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed. You are all very kind.

I know that I didn't entirely solve the issue with Carol. I would like to make her a reoccurring villan. Her sense of entitlement is so massive; I don't think she has the sense to stay out of Harlan.


End file.
